


Laer o Faen

by Eilinelithil



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Conflict, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-01-13 07:14:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 152,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1217296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eilinelithil/pseuds/Eilinelithil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A near fatal encounter with the Serpents of the North leaves Greenwood the Great's queen with but one choice, one that cost her own life, but she makes a promise to her beloved King, born of a love that has already lasted through more than an age of Middle Earth, and remains the only hope to warm a heart fallen behind a wall of despair. (Mingled Movie/book canon, the span of the entire story takes in events from the 1st - 4th Ages of Middle Earth.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dadwenathan Le

**Author's Note:**

> This story began its early development in conversation and planning with my friend, Elaine. However, our ideas developed in two separate directions and my concept moved beyond the scope of our work together, so I went on to develop my story separately. I'd like to acknowledge my friend's contribution to the initial spark; for setting me off on this path. I'd also like to acknowledge and thank my friend, Nancy, for her unfailing strength and help where a certain Elvenking is concerned.
> 
> I don’t own any but the original characters, I just take them out and play with them from time to time. Many thanks Papa Tolkien, and also many thanks to the creative genius of Peter Jackson, Fran Walsh and Philippa Boyens et al for their part in the inspiration of this work of fiction.
> 
> I'm attempting the impossible of course – a strange, unique blend of Movie and True Canon, while writing this.  
> Mistakes in the Elvish (probably many) are entirely my own… apologies to the Elder Race. Translations (intended translations) are given below each chapter.

Chapter One

Third Age of Middle Earth – 93

 

_Dadwenathan le, fae nín.  Gwestan im an le men hirathan. Dartho an im… Melethron... faeraranuir nín!_

 

The storms that had raged for days abated earlier that day, but bringing scant relief, and evening descended early with a viciousness that embraced Eryn Galen with more than just an absence of light. It felt more like a bitter surrender and it filled Celyndailiel with a fear that she had never before felt.  She could not settle, no matter what she did, as if she could still hear the thunder, sense the lightning that had split the sky, because it had settled inside of her.

She put aside the book, the pages of which she'd been staring at, unseeing, since before dusk fell and climbing to her feet, walked slowly toward where her young son rested, seeking comfort there.

It wasn't to be.

Though she found joy in her son, in running her fingers through his golden hair, and the softness of his answering smile, the growing dread that had been growing in her heart took hold, and with it, a dimming of the light in which she had happily dwelt through all the ceaseless centuries of her life.

In its dimming she felt herself becoming unaccustomedly chilled, and then, as though from afar, she thought she heard an Elven horn, sounding out a cry of wanting in the gathering night.  At its second sounding, she recognised the note of her husband's battle horn, but that could not be – for her beloved was far away to the north; called away to campaign against the ever present Shadow that stalked the heart of all the Eldar, and sought dominion over all the free folk of Middle Earth.  Yet… doubt began to stalk her spirit and without thinking, she reached out along the bonds of their matrimony, seeking his mind, his soul… prepared only to meet the steel of his denial.  Never, when he was in battle, would he allow her that closeness, meaning, she knew, to shelter her from the horrors of war as he always had, in his many ways.  She expected to be rebuffed, but this time there was something else… a terrible pain she met in place of that mental barricade – an absence.

_Lau…_

Almost before the horn sounded a third time – and closer then – she found her feet, hushing her son, and bidding him remain as he was.  Then in haste, unmatched in all her years she began the long descent toward the outer courtyard, gathering ladies and stewards at her heels, reaching the doorway just as the first of the horses clattered into the paved enclosure.

"My Queen," Her husband's second dismounted.  His usually measured, calm movements seemed hurried and discordant.  It sped her steps toward him, but as she reached the foot of the stair, shook his head.

"Stay back, my lady," he said, his voice trailing off as he added, "You cannot…"

She had already ceased to hear him.  Movement beyond him drew her eye away, and a litter carried between four armoured Elves passed beneath the arch and into the courtyard, and on the litter, a figure, motionless – dim in her sight – lay covered and yet, peeking from beneath the shrouding cloak, she recognised the tooling on the armour, and the dread she carried heavily within her struck like a viper, swift and full of poison.

She cried out wordlessly, and felt the arms of the king's second wrap around her waist, lifting her from the ground before she even realised she had moved again, and she fought to escape his restraint.

"He lives," the Elven warrior told her, his words gasped with the effort of restraining her. "Though barely."

"Let me _go!_ " she demanded, and breaking suddenly free, let out another, inarticulate cry as she flew the distance between them, to her husband's side.

She fell to her knees beside the litter, feeling his failing life as the absence she had faced as she had reached for his mind.  She drew back the cloak with which they had covered him and recoiled, letting go a third, most wretched cry as she saw the ruin that was left of him.  Clear half of his body was scorched and mangled – his arm and hip, his leg and torso a bloody ragged mess, and above his mangled shoulder, the burned remnants of his once beautiful face seeped blood and matter onto the cloak on which he lay.

"Husband!" she cried, slipping her hand into his right, and squeezing its lifelessness. "Thranduil! My heart!"

 

** ** **

 

_"Dan emyn!"_

_He heard his strongly voiced order taken up and repeated along the line of warriors by unit commanders, and the slow turn of the Elven line became apparent.  Throwing back his cloak he lifted his gaze to the withered line of the horizon and the dark shape there; one that grew rapidly.  His people were not moving fast enough._

_"Dan emyn!" he repeated, slashing his way through a line of foul orc filth to reach the loyal guards at the front of his line.  His free hand gripped the shoulder after shoulder of his warriors as he all but pulled them back, taking their place; giving them time – protecting his people. "Bado i-ered! Gwao hi!"_

_"My lord!" Another's hand caught his_ own _shoulder, pulled_ him _back, much as he had been sending his warriors on their way.  "You must retreat with the others.  You cannot remain here!"_

 _He shook off the restraint of his second, and turning pushed_ him _in the direction of the hills._

 _"I_ will not _leave my valiant here to suffer and die. Not while I have strength," he snarled.  "Go. I will follow when they are clear."_

_But my King," His second started to protest, and then in greater alarm, as a darkening of the air around them shadowed the ground, repeated, "My King!"_

_Thranduil took in the expression on his second's face, then spun to face the direction of his horrified gaze.  The sight made him redouble his efforts to send his warriors to safety.  He had faced such horrors before, when the world was yet young, and a calm, rather than fear descended over him; a cold resignation that seemed to slow time around him._

_"Drego," he ordered pushing elf after elf toward safety.  "This foe is beyond you!"_

_They scrambled to obey, though his loyal second fought to remain at his side, but Thranduil moved_ toward _the vast, vile shape of the Winged Serpent; fell dragon, a nightmare of legend and his blade glinted in the light of the creatures eyes, reflecting the glow of its inner fire as it gathered itself to let forth the stream of annihilation.  Seconds only, he knew he had, and he slashed at it, driving it back with the deadly bite of_ Heleglim _, lending him… lending all of them, precious moments._

_Precious moments before the inevitable._

_Rearing back, clear half mad with the pain and bite of the cold magic in the Elvenking's blade the dragon struck back, a snarling short burst of unspeakable fire following the raking slash of claws and Thranduil turned, an ineffectual defence against the devastation of flame that engulfed the left side of him, even as several desperate warriors, yet remaining at his side, sought to shield him, their King, and behind him, his second tried to pull him away._

_The pain, unbearable, was mercifully brief, darkness descended, and feeling himself falling, as if into midnight, his only thought – his only regret – was that it had been tears he had last seen in her beautiful eyes._

_"Celyn—"_

"—dailiel!"

A hand pressed to his shoulder, pushing him back against soft linens that were cool against his back.

"Do not move too much, Aran nín."

Galion's voice.  He was home?  Greenwood?

"Where is…?" His own voice was ragged with disuse, barely a whisper, trailed off, but if he were home, why then was it his steward's voice he heard, soothing him, curbing his desire to move.

"Here, Sire." A cool hand slipped beneath his shoulders, helped him to sit up against the pillow.  Why was the room so dark, so unclear?  "Take some water, my Lord."

The cup and the water were before him before he could protest, and in truth the water was cooling and welcome in his ragged throat, but after only a moment, he pushed it away.

"Celyndailiel?" he said, looking to Galion then, confused.  Why was she not at his side?

"My Lord, you _must_ yet rest," Galion answered, refusing his question.

"Where is the Queen?" he pressed, fear colouring his tone as he let down his steely mental walls at last and reached for her… feeling… nothing – an absence.

_Do not be angry with me, my soul, you know I kept you away only for your own sake._

He sent the words out nonetheless… and waited for the rush of warmth that always followed in the touch of her mind, and for Galion to answer his question.

The absence of both, and the expression of the deepest grief upon the face of his steward told him all that he did _not_ wish to know; all that he _already_ knew.

Galion crossed the room to reach for a small, white wood box, carrying it reverently back toward Thranduil, setting the box into his trembling hands.

"She did… all that she could, my Lord," Galion said, his voice broken, "would not rest, barely enough to take breath until she was sure your heart would beat if she should release her hold upon you.  She would allow no other hand to tend you, though we sent to Imladris for aid, for fear that they would fail, and when at last she could go on no more; when even Lord Elrond could lend her no more time to heal you further, she laid her head upon your chest and placed into your hand that which you will find cushioned within the box."

Galion's voice faltered as Thranduil unfastened the lid of the box, and found within… nestled on the deep blue cushion inside, the twin to the white star-opal ring that graced the index finger of his hand.

Galion whispered, "And with the last breath of her life, she bid me speak to you these words of her promise…"

_________________________________

Lau – no

Dan emyn! – Fall back to the hills

Bado i-ered! Gwao hi! – Head for the mountains!  Go now!

Drego! – Flee!

Heleglim – Light of Ice (Thranduil's sword)

Aran nín – my King

The words at the header of the chapter are Celyndailiel dying promise to Thranduil, they translate (roughly) as, _I will return to you, my soul… I swear to you that I will find a way.  Wait for me… my love… Eternally radiant king of my soul._


	2. Sui Rhoss Vin i Vorn

**Laer o Faen**

 

Two

Third Age of Middle Earth – 2840

 

_Fae, sui rhoss vin i vorn, egor i charthad o ngilith am dhû ú ithil._

 

Sensing movement beneath the great branch on which she crouched, hidden in the folds of shadow between trunk and overhanging limb, Nieniriathlim froze, hardly daring to allow the breath from her body, without due consideration to silence.

Such also was the manner in which she slowly, like the march of an Age, drew the dark grey cloak tighter around her slender frame, careful to ensure that the hood fully covered her fall of silver-blonde hair.

How many days had she crouch in such a place, ever watchful, ever quiet – merging as one with the darkened branches of the overhanging trees – and never yet afforded such a clear view of the comings and goings from out of the Elvenking's Halls as this.  As if by some awakening, the Elves of Woodland Realm, her estranged kin, were suddenly conjured to life in urgent execution of some unknown purpose.

Many there were, back and forth beneath the shelter of her hiding place. Some armed and armoured – Elite Guard who were among those brave warriors that guarded against the grown and ever growing Dark beneath the twisted bowers of the woodland. Mirkwood, they called it now, and had since ever she had been born, but once it claimed another name, one that set a lighter burden upon the hearts and minds of Elves such as her.  She knew this… she _felt_ this.

_Golden-green light dappled the silver-white neck and mane of the horse she rode as the canopy above thinned to allow the sculpted and carved domes of the woodland settlement to reach to the air above. The wood's warmth breathed its welcome at her coming, as his mind touched hers._

_'Welcome home, my soul.'_

Nieniriathlim gasped softly as the sight flashed atop the truth of that which she now looked down upon; as the words whispered into her mind as though true spoken to her, and at her gasp pressed herself closer to the trunk of the tree, holding tightly, squeezing her eyes shut tightly almost as if waiting for the voice that would call her down; demand explanation.

She had outstayed her welcome.

** ** **

He dismounted as soon as he reached the thinning of the trees, sending the horse in with the forward patrol, and remaining with the rear-guard as they came in on foot.

_Take care of your soldiers, always._

His father had instilled the discipline in him, and it was a lesson that he had learned quickly and was always true to follow, even as the king himself had done in sending him ahead with half of the patrol… the other lesson served by what the Elvenking had done.

_Look to your people._

As he passed beneath one of the many overhanging branches, Legolas paused mid step.  He cocked his head.  Had there been a sound? A breath from the trees?  He raised a hand, tempted to draw back his hood that he might better hear if some intruder – perhaps some agent of the Enemy – by some foul deed, misdirected their search and had beaten them back, spilling danger within the midst of his people when defence would be slower to answer.  He stayed his hand, for doing so would mark him as a target, as Sindar amid the Sylvan Elves of the Woodland Realm.  Instead he listened harder also reaching out with other senses, and neither hearing, nor feeling anything further, he turned to the herald who came out to meet the incoming guard.

"My prince?"

Legolas shook his head.

"Recall all outlying patrols," he ordered instead, "and strengthen the Border Guard. Prepare to close the gates."

The herald gave a nodded bow of obedience and understanding, and even as the Elf turned away, readying his horn, Legolas spared one last, curious glance up into the dim canopy of the trees, before turning away and heading for the bridge that led into the Halls.

** ** **

All but ready to flee, Nieniriathlim felt the doubting gaze of the Elf below that pierced the shadow, almost to the very fibres of her cloak and silently prayed by all the stars above that his eyes should slide from her form and perceive her not.

_If_ ever _you held love for me, home-of-my-heart,_ she sent her appeal out into the heart of the very trees of the woodland themselves, _then shield me now.  Give me not occasion to be discovered when I have yet seen so little._

Below her, the Elf turned away, and suddenly the wood was filled with sound and movement, as the herald's horn blew out a clear note into the deepening afternoon, and from here and there, Elves began returning along the pathways and trails.

She did not question her good fortune, simply pushed away from the niche in which she crouched, found her feet with the balanced poise of her Elven heritage, and all but flew, birdlike along the thick, gnarled limb, high above the woodland floor, only descending when she felt she was clear of any danger of discovery.

Once on the ground, she took a moment to catch her breath, and to still the conflict between relief and disappointment that flowed through her blood.  Days and days had passed and still no sign or sight of the one haunting her visions… her dreams.  All the Elves she had seen were clearly Elves of the woodland, sylvan elves with red or russet hair, dark of eye – Like her parents, and not for the first time, nor, she was sure, the last, she wondered how she, so unlike to them, could have come from their union.  True, her mother was lighter of form than most others of her woodland kin, so perhaps there was some trace of other heritage, maybe from her mother's mother, but lately – as the dreams had grown stronger, and the emotions that came with them more fierce, she had become more and more disturbed by her mother's teasing nickname for her: _Pinahyaol_ , little changeling.

Like a deer, her head few up as a trembling expectation in the air announced the coming of a host mere moments before a second horn took up an answering cry to the first.  Then she felt the thrumming of swift, rhythmic hooves, and the leafy whisper of the passage of an Elven infantry ran like heartbeat through the forest floor.  She tipped her head.  Their path took them parallel and opposite to her direction, but she would have to cross their path; cross the path that led to the Forest Gate to reach her home.  She had to hurry.  If she took a diagonal path through the brush she would reach her crossing all the swifter, providing nothing ill reared up to hinder her passing.  If it did, her desire to remain unseen would be moot, for if some foul creature were abroad within the reach and senses of the coming Elves, then they would seek it out – put it down…

"And likely you with it," she reminded herself softly, and with a breath she set her limbs to movement, choosing her path and with swift, soft steps she moved through the thick tangle of bramble, vine and branch, skirting or leaping over less savoury creepers and and weeds, catching a hand here and there upon thicker limbs to aid her turning, and running swift across larger, fallen logs that might otherwise have blocked her path until she came within sight at last of the voice within the canopy that was the patrolled pathway.

They were close, the Elven host, too close, and led by a small cavalry at gallop along the smooth, paved pathway.  She would not stop in time to avoid being seen as they passed – and followed by the Elves on foot, she would surely be caught.  She had but one choice: to keep going, to _speed_ her steps and hope to cross their path in the dimming light.  By chance she might be thought some natural animal at flight from such a coming mass, and so, committed, she ran on, though the risk was great.

Twenty heartbeats, it would be close… mere feet would be between them when she crossed if she did not find a greater speed.  Ten short breaths, and the path was within reach of her desperate flight.

The hood of her cloak caught, twisted in a bramble; pulled from her hair, and she stifled the short gasp that stole a precious moment as she reached behind even as she kept her steps forward, grasped the fabric and pulled it free, having no time to cover herself again before she burst onto, and across the pathway, barely a horse length away from the lead rider.

She did not stop.  She did not dare.

** ** **

Not half a stride ahead, something dashed across the track, and intent on the track much further on, Thranduil saw it only as a flash of white amid shadow across his path, disappearing into the depth of the forest in his peripheral vision.

It was not what he _saw_ that had him pull back on the reins, but the feeling that went through him, like a cold blade laid against his back, a chill of expectation that unbalanced his strength and had him pull too hard, too fast.

The stallion reared, calling to his rider in protest, but mastering the sudden rush of the disturbance that had fallen over him with the intensity of a of a winter squall, Thranduil gathered the rein to turn the stallion in place upon its hind legs.  Letting the horse down, his ice-blue gaze peered beneath the trees, and listening he tried to track the fleeing creature – white amid shadow.  The White Hart?

The rest of the patrol flowed around him, like a river around rock, and ever aware, he felt them moving onward, following his orders to return to the Halls, though his second did stop, and return to his side.

"My King?"

Still peering deep beneath the trees, he shook his head, uncertain how to answer, but drawing in the feeling that still lingered in every breath he took, his left hand trembled upon the rein.  He clenched his fingers tighter until the leather bit deeply and painfully, to draw him back… draw him away from a hope too painful to entertain – even for a moment.

"King Thranduil?" his second repeated, more urgently, his request for a response, and with every fibre of control he possessed, Thranduil turned his head, and then his horse's head to face his captain.

"A spirit," he said softly, "Like a whisper in the dark, or the promise of starlight on a moonless night."

His captain frowned, and as abruptly as it had come, Thranduil shook off the mood, released his too hard grasp upon the rein, and ordered, clipped and business like, "Come, we must reach the Halls by nightfall."

And with barely another glance into the darkening trees, he put heels to horse, the lightest touch to speed him safety.

Yet… a melancholy settled over him then, and to the trees, falling into shadow at his back, he murmured, "I-varnol dan… ui u-bardh."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I-varnol dan… ui u-bardh – safety, but… never home.
> 
> The words at the head of the chapter match those spoken by Thranduil when questioned by his second as to what he thinks he has seen… _a spirit, like a whisper in the dark, or the promise of starlight on a moonless night._


	3. I Amar Dannen Di i Dhim

Three

Third Age of Middle Earth – 93

 

_Na onen teri ad pân i naeth o hen amar ammen ad erio or pân hain_

 

The slight shuffle of a booted foot shattered the pace of Celyndailiel's grief, and though she could not reach a state of calm, the mantle of queen settled over her trembling shoulders, and looking up at the litter bearers, forcing herself to her feet, though she did not let go of Thranduil's cold hand, she ordered, "Take him inside; up to the Northern Spire."

They began moving immediately, and as they reached the doorway she had no choice but to let go, but stayed near the litter as they carried Thranduil quickly up the winding pathway.  As they went she began relaying desperate instructions to servants ahead.

"Lay a low fire in the hearth, set flagons of water either side to moisten the air, and draw back _all_ of the drapes at the windows."

"My Lady?"

At her side the King's Second queried her command.

"The room must be bathed in natural light – the stars, the moon… all of it," she answered, then to the servants again, she added breathlessly, "And bring all the healing supplies you can find.  Go!  You… run ahead, strip the bed and cover it with a fresh sheet of cotton only. Bring up water for washing.  Hurry."

It took an age, and yet no time at all, to reach the Northern Spire, the highest point within the Halls of the Elvenking, and even as they set him down upon the newly stripped bed she turned to the one of the remaining servants.

"Help me with the laces of my gown," she instructed, turning her back so that the servant could reach them.  She could not have her long sleeves trailing over him as she tried to help her husband, she would work in her shift if she must, but she would not leave him to the care of any other hand than her own.  "I will need a sharp blade.  The sharpest you can find, and a brazier of hot coal beside the bed."

"My lady, please," Thranduil's second tried to still her, calm her, but already the hurry and bustle of servants bringing the things she had ordered was becoming stifling and the only way she could stop herself from succumbing to it, and descending into a helplessness that would be deadly to both her, and her husband, was to keep moving; to act.

As she stepped out of her dress, as the servant picked it up and hurried away, she spared a glance toward the captain and snapped, "How many dead?"

As she waited for his answer she moved to sit on the side of the bed, by the insensate king, and taking up the blade she had requested, with trembling hands she began to cut away the burned and melted clothing from her husband's shattered form.

"You do not have to do this," the captain told her gently, as she revealed, little by little, the full horror of the terrible injuries Thranduil had suffered. Almost the entire left side of his face, his neck, his shoulder and his arm had been clawed and burned to bare sinew – almost to the bone.  Major blood vessels were packed by silken linens by the field surgeon that had no doubt tended him before they moved him.  The left side of his torso, his hip and his left leg, though less mortally burned, were serious enough, nonetheless, to have taken the life of all but the hardiest of folk.

"How many dead?" she repeated.

"There are other healers," he persisted, "and we have sent to Imladris for aid, we—"

"Answer me, Captain!" she snapped, the loss of control allowing out the sob her words had masked.  Still working to free her husband from his melted armour, she made herself speak on. "How many of our kin lost their lives to this cause?"

"Many thousands were lost on the battlefield, my Lady," he answered her at last, his head lowered, "Elves and men and dwarves alike."

"And how many _more_ of our people gave their lives to bring him home?" she pressed, and glanced up at him, as he shook his head. "He barely draws breath, Faleron.  Do you think he would _survive_ the time it will take for even the swiftest of horses to bring Lord Elrond here from Imladris?"

"But you—"

"I am his wife," she cut him off, "his _queen_.  There _is_ no other than could reach him. Eru--!"

She broke off as the removal of his breastplate released a rush of fresh blood over her hands, soaking her shift where she leaned over him, and she quickly snatched up a herb infused silken cloth from the healing supplies to pack the open wound, whispering the hurried, trembling words of a ' _stay'_ that would keep him from bleeding to his last heartbeat.

** ** **

"…' Dadwenathan le, fae nín.  Gwestan im an le men hirathan. Dartho an im… Melethron... faeraranuir nín!'"

Thranduil stared, his uncovered eye blurring with tears as Galion's soft voice repeated words that sounded _so_ alike to the phrasing his beloved light might have used, but he could not… _would_ not… believe.

He tried to sit up, pushing with both his injured and uninjured arms, embracing the intense pain that lanced through the whole of the left side of him as he moved. In the same moment throwing wide his mental bond with Celyn, desperately reaching for anything, any _hint_ of a connection that would belie Galion's words.

The physical pain was as an itch to the emotional agony that followed in the silence and absence that met his searching soul.  The world became colourless, grey and without hope of life in a single instant, and with a cry that splintered the air to match his fracturing heart, he fell back against the pillows, launching the box, and the ring within away from him.  It flew across the room with such force that the white wood box shattered against the wall beside the door.

He was aware – vaguely – that the door had opened, and that a figure had stooped as it came within the chamber; he heard the softly spoken command that sent Galion from the room, but he was so lost, more broken even than he had been when but a breath away from death, that he lacked the will to react to either fact.

"Leave us," Elrond's soft voice was the one that ordered Galion away, and the whisper of his footsteps brought him to within a breath of Thranduil. The king felt him carefully touch his fingertips to his uninjured shoulder.

He turned his head, slowly, letting out only a soft breath as testament to the hurt that pulled beneath the bandages.  His gaze lifted to meet the deep concern in the Elven Lord's eyes.  His sight remained dim, with half of his face still swathed in bandages, his left eye kept closed by the pressure of the pad that covered it.  But in his expression he put all of his anguish, all of his pain, all of his unanswered questions, and he saw Elrond's eyes soften still further.

"She would not leave your side," Elrond began, speaking slowly, reverently.  "Not even to see to her own needs and comfort.  Every moment, every breath she took; every word or thought she uttered, it was in love of you; for your salvation."

His lips parted as if to release the words that came and went from his mind, but which he could not utter.  Where was the point?  What was the world without her in it?

He felt his lips tremble as the despair made his already laboured breath harder yet to catch.  Felt the barest brush of warmth, subtle but unmistakably there as Elrond reached to anchor him.

"No," he breathed, the word long, drawn out and plaintive. "Elrond, let me go."

"I cannot."

"Close the drapes," he all but begged the other Elf.  "Shut me from all light and let me go.  The world is but pale shadow without her, and I am but a speck of _dust_ within it."

He felt the strength of Elrond's fingers close around his own as the Elven Lord took his hand, and he clung to him, terrified of his own despair, like a child lost in the dark.

"Ai, Thranduil," Elrond whispered softly, leaning down to him. "Na onen teri ad pân i naeth o hen amar ammen ad erio or pân hain.  You _must_ live. Celyn knew this."

Thranduil let out a sobbing breath.

"Your people need you," Elrond said with earnest urgency. "Your _son_ needs you."

"He needs his mother," Thranduil ground out through clenched teeth.

"He _has_ his father."

"He has lived but _six_ years! They doted on one another, Elrond," Thranduil all but implored the other Elf. "It was a joy to behold.  How can I even _hope_ to replace that?"

"You cannot," Elrond answered and shook his head, "You _need_ not. You are his father, and Legolas loves you."

Thranduil closed his eyes, everything in him _aching_ with the effort of simply _being_ ; of breathing, of each successive heartbeat.  It would be so easy just to let go.

"I amar dannen di i dhim," he whispered.

"The more reason that it needs you in it," Elrond answered softly.  "If you will not trust me, then trust Celyn.  She loved you."

"Why?" he breathed.

"She was wiser than all of us," Elrond answered softly.  "Wiser than we know."

For a long time, Thranduil remained still, silent, drifting in shadow and in loss, until Elrond softly touched his shoulder once more, and he felt the soft release of the hold Elrond's light had upon his own.  For a moment, he almost panicked, and gripped the other Elf's hand more tightly still.  Then becoming aware of movement, he opened his eye; turned his gaze toward Elrond and saw that he held out Celyn's marriage ring.

With a long slow sigh, and an even longer blink, he shook his head, and releasing Elrond's hand pushed Elrond's fingers closed over the ring.

"Keep it," he whispered, his lips trembling once again in the pain of her loss.  When Elrond did not move he pushed at the hand, pressing it closer to Elrond's chest, and repeated even softer.  "Keep it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dadwenathan le, fae nín. Gwestan im an le men hirathan. Dartho an im… Melethron... faeraranuir nín - I will return to you, my soul… I swear to you that I will find a way. Wait for me… my love… Eternally radiant king of my soul.
> 
> Na onen teri ad pân i naeth o hen amar ammen ad erio or pân hain - It is given to some of us to stand against all the sorrows of this world and rise above them all.
> 
> I amar dannen di i dhim – the world has fallen into shadow.


	4. Heleg ad Gwilith

Third Age of Middle Earth – 2840

 

_Heleg ad gwilith_

 

Mirkwood was dark, and more dangerous by nightfall than it was even by day, so she stole by longer paths, and by a treetop route across its breadth between her dwelling and her destination, heading first to the river and the coracle her parents kept there for fishing, then following the water toward the River Gate of the Elvenking's Halls.  There she once more took to the treetops and by cover of night, cloud and other dense foliage, drew nigh to the gate, for she knew she must get inside.

It was the single roll of thunder that had begun the open act of defiance of her parents, and the argument she had had with them on her return home warred fiercely with the fear kindled by the thunder, and left behind by the dream… another vision, but this one, stronger and more visceral than any – ever – and in it she was on her knees before the elf she so often saw…

_His white-blonde hair shone silver like starlight – always like starlight – and his eyes, though she knew them to hold much that was an expression of love, burned like ice.  Her hands clutched at the lapels of the long robe that covered his powerful frame, and he held her arms, vice-like, almost painfully, but rather that than have him let go._

…the dread that lodged in her heart as Nieniriathlim rushed back in upon herself at the drawing away of the vision was one of unbearable loss; an unbreakable sense of doom.  In spite of her parents, their argument, and her promises to them, she knew she could not delay – not for another moment – her efforts to discover the truth of all she saw, and to try and understand all she did not know.

It was by pure carelessness, one born of the fear instilled in her by her parents against coming to the heart of the Woodland Realm, that had ultimately precipitated the falling of the axe of fate.  Nieniriathlim crept from shadow to shadow by the dim light of the near dawn, only to find the gates still firmly shut against the lingering night.

She should have known.  She had heard the orders given by the watch commanders and _their_ superiors as she had crouched hidden in the trees the day before.  By what foolish notion did she consider it might be different before even the dawning of a new day?

Wedged within the same hiding place, but unable to shake the absolute need to get inside that was clawing at her so hard that it was almost a physical pain, she cast her eyes over the sculpted façade of the entry to the halls, the bridge across the river that flowed at its base, and the postern gate bare meters away from the main gate, but across the other side of the river, with no visible means of reaching it.

"There _must_ be a way," she breathed to herself, realising it made little sense for the door to be there without a means of ingress.  Perhaps it simply meant she could not see it from her current vantage point.  As silently as she could she slipped down from the branch and crept into the foliage at the foot of the tree, measuring the shadows between where she crouched, and the smaller trees and bushes at the closest edge of the river directly across from the postern.

She had not taken the movement of the clouds, nor the slow setting of the moon into account.

Drawing up her hood, she kept it pulled low and tight around her face as she whispered across from cover to cover, slipping from shadow to shadow.  She froze, like a deer or rabbit at the slightest sound and started first one way and then another to keep the whereabouts of the guards in sight. Then the wind shifted, and the low hanging crescent moon pointed its finger where she crept between the shifting, leafy cover.

The first she realised of her peril was the arrow that landed in the ground a breath away from her.  The Elite guards of the Woodland Realm did not miss. She had watched them often and long enough to know this, and so knew that the placement of the shot had been deliberate, meant to keep her from advancing, drive her where they wanted her to be.  Instead she turned and swerved aside, sprinting for new cover nearby, believing – in error greater than her peril – that if she reached it she would be able to slip to further shadows and make her escape.

Three more arrows struck the ground before and beside her. One pierced the hem of her cloak, and before she could reach to free herself, she found herself overshadowed by armoured Elves, and even as she backpedalled – paying little heed to her cloak any more – the hands of two guards closed around her upper arms, even as a third leaned down to pluck the arrow from the ground.  She struggled, spitting most un-elflike invectives, in her demands that they let her go, as they began to half carry, half drag her within the Halls.

"U-rico," one of them ordered, sounding almost urgently kind.

Then the other hissed less amicably, "No tîn!"

Yet, the nearer they brought her through the Halls to the audience chamber above, the stronger her struggles became, and her cries, which began as words, turned almost inarticulate when one of the guards mentioned the king.

** ** **

"Perhaps I should simply have you sent back to Laketown," Thranduil's too controlled voice rang out over the throne room, though he barely raised it, "with my missive that I no longer require that trade be facilitated by your people."

But a day before, while he had been out on patrol with his forces, his steward had discovered a deception wrought upon the wood by an unscrupulous representative of the men of Esgaroth.  Never before would they have _dared_ to cross him, let alone deceive him and then attempt to confound the crime by means of trespass.  There was more in this betrayal than the simple greed of men, or their desperation, which had only grown with the continuing hardships they faced day upon day; their troubles worsening with time since the desolation wrought by the dragon, barely two generations ago… in the reckoning of men.

The criminal, not originally a man of Laketown – for, by the manner of his dress, Thranduil identified him as a survivor of Dale – cowered now on his knees before the throne.

"Majesty," the man stuttered, his manner turning from defiance to alarm in a single moment, and it did not take a master strategist and diplomat like Thranduil to know that he had touched a nerve, even before the man pleaded, "You may as well put me to death by your own hand as send me back with such a message."

"Indeed," Thranduil answered, without a beat having passed, "Do not think I have not considered such a reward for what you have done."  He waved a hand then, almost dismissively as he added, "But, I am far more inclined to hear the details of just what it was you sought to remove from—"

He broke off.

His head snapped up and all around he was aware of eyes turning his way; of hands tightening around sword and bow alike, but he was drawn by the same, momentary flash of a cold fire that flowed over him as he had felt in the woodland the previous day.  He stood then, and watched as a struggling figure was brought by guardsmen up to the tier of the Halls in which his audience chamber stood.

Twice within the space of two consecutive days, his usual reserve snapped, and descending the stair, he demanded of the guards, "For what reason do you disturb my business here?"

"My Lord," one of the two Elves holding the struggling, cloaked figure answered at once, "We apprehended this one attempting to hide within the foliage by the River Crossing, close on the River Gate."

"An accomplice?" Thranduil narrowed his eyes, his accusatory glare falling over the Man of Dale still on his knees nearby.  "Speak!"

"Majesty, I do not—" the man began.

" _Do_ not seek to deceive me," Thranduil warned, "Truth or falsehood form the line between life and death.  Choose wisely upon which side you will stand."

The man shook his head, fear upon his face, and what remaining shred of patience Thranduil possessed snapped, though something he could not explain stayed his hand from ordering their execution.

"Take them," he commanded, glaring down into the space at the two miscreants in his hall: the man upon his knees, and the still struggling figure held between his guards. "Take them both and give them cause to think on their willingness to answer."

He began to turn away, yet, unexpectedly, his eye was drawn to the newcomer, and she – for though cloaked and hooded he was certain of that fact – stilled beneath his gaze.

"Be assured, I _will_ have the truth."  His shifted his gaze aside again and dismissed his guards, before completing his turn, ready to descend and head to his chambers; to catch a hold of his too fragile control.

_"_ Heleg ad gwilith."

The words, though whispered, were like the clash of thunder to his ears; so familiar – words he had longed for through millennia, reached him from the lips of the figure, now once more struggling; all but frantic in the arms of his guards, and before he could measure his reaction, he raised a hand and ordered, "Wait!"

The guards turned back almost immediately following his command, two he waved off, taking the offending man of Laketown with them, and as the others brought the struggling figure to a halt before him, he signalled, the casual gesture belying his feelings, for them to let her go.

She stumbled as they released her arms, and it took _everything_ he was – defying explanation – not to reach out and steady her.  Instead, to all in the chamber, he said softly, "Leave us," without ever once taking his eyes off the cloaked figure before him.

He remained before her, immobile, every muscle in his body tense with expectation; a hope he dare not anticipate teased just beyond grasp even if he _were_ to reach for it.

_…Dadwenathan le…_

The promise, whispered in the pauses between breaths, the absence between heartbeats, made his chest grow tighter, almost painful in the expectation of disappointment.

"M… my Lord, I can explain—"

Her voice, though she stammered and was clearly afraid, was soft and held a melodic depth in spite of the tremor in it.  The tone caressed his jangling nerves, drew that elusive expectation around his senses like a soft blanket; so familiar and yet… it held a newness that left him uncertain, left relief just beyond his grasp.

"Your hood," he said, wrapping a tight control around that hope, not daring to acknowledge too much of it.  "Remove it."

Holding his breath, he watched her hands shake as she reached up, and hardened his heart as best he could, under the circumstances of his own, sudden nervousness, against the unbidden sympathy that rose in him.  Then she pulled down her hood, and her white-blonde hair, though braided spilled into view, shining – visibly soft.

He let out his breath in a long, slow sigh and before she could lower her gaze, he moved, lifting his hand to graze the tips of his fingers across her exquisitely high cheekbones.  Her beauty was unmistakeable, and her familiarity made the ache in his heart sharpen.  She was _not_ his Celyn in looks, as he would have expected – _dadwenathan le_ – and yet was as if a cousin or sister, an almost-twin, too alike to be some random coincidence.  There was purpose in her coming, and it was the _purpose_ that he felt, the potential that trembled through him as he locked his gaze with hers, his ice-steel eyes reaching into the depth of water that was the blue of her own.

_Hear me._

The thought formed in his mind, but he caught the leading edge of the bond that would have sent the words forward, into her mind, and as if her fear had sharpened, either by his touch, or as though she had heard in spite of his effort to keep his mind from hers, she drew a breath sharply, and stepped back, away from him.

"What is your name?"

"Nieniriathlim, my Lord."

"The words you spoke," he said and was about to continue his question when she craved his apology, as demurely as any who had ever addressed him, but he did not wish for an apology, he wanted to know how she could have known to use such words on setting eyes upon him.  It left him almost trembling in anticipation of her answer.  He lifted his hand in a slight wave as if to ward of such a request for forgiveness as, pacing away from her, apparently calm, he finished, "Where did you hear them?"

The words of her answer stilled his step and he halted as if suspended, sucking in another breath, willing her to go on, to give him the confirmation he needed, though if she did, he could not _say_ what he would do.

"I heard them nowhere—"

Spinning he demanded, "Then How?"

Hope crested and a greater expectation sharpened like a knife inside of him, but obviously startled, she let out a soft cry, and stumbled a step further away, coming to her knee in a near fall, and before he could think better of it, he stepped close and followed her down, his hands reaching for hers, taking the both of them in one long fingered hand, his other coming to rest gently against her upper arm.

"You have no need to fear," he told her firmly, and with a gentle but insistent upward pressure drew her to her feet once more, though, unwilling to release her, he kept a hold of her hands.  "I believe I had you much mistaken before, but… tell me."

"Forgive me," she whispered, and he watched as she swallowed three times before she spoke on, as if to find her voice was a struggle.  "The words, I…"

She trailed off as she looked up, and his eyes caught hers, this young elf, so alike to what was lost; luminous, filled with the fragile promise of a strength that he could feel; that ached to grow.  Everything within him screamed for caution, and with all he was he held himself to stillness, within and without – waiting.

"Sinwa hîn enni," her words finally broke the tension of the silence between them.  "Mathan… Laew…"

He could see she struggled and he almost faltered, but his sense of caution, and his sense of duty was driven by more than the unconscious warning within his soul that flowed from a deeper source than the practical.  Many fell creatures now lay within the forest beyond his halls, and every day, the dread reach of the sleepless malice that grew out of the south drew ever closer to his kingdom.  His woods, once green and full of life, lay now dark with the poison of Shadow and for one yet so delicate as she to have come unmolested to his door, she had to be either blessed by the Valar, or some fell creature herself – for not _all_ servants of Shadow were of ill aspect, and not all that was fair was of necessity of the Light. 

"Come, Tithen," he said at last, and shifted his hold upon her hands, taking the one in a courtly clasp, releasing the other and starting toward the winding pathway that led deeper within the Halls.  "Allow me to show you to a place where you may rest – as my guest."

His tone was patient, but he knew it would be clear that he would hear no argument against his intent.  She _would_ remain, and he would watch her – closely – for as he had said, he _would_ have the truth. He _needed_ to know that was he felt was not born of the unbearable pain he still carried deep in his soul.

He needed to talk to someone, but who?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> U-rico! – don't struggle!
> 
> No tîn! – be silent!
> 
> Heleg ad gwilith – ice and starlight
> 
> Dadwenathan le – I will return to you
> 
> Sinwa hîn enni – I feel them (Literally 'they are known to me')
> 
> Mathan… Laew - I feel… so much
> 
> Tithen – little one


	5. Dartho Na Anim

Third Age of Middle Earth – 93

 

_Dartho na anim_

 

Every moment, she worked tirelessly with means arcane and less so: poultice and salve, and waxed silk to hold together flesh that would not knit, no matter the effort.  No sooner would she stop the bleeding of one wound, than another would reopen, start again.  Such was the hideous nature of dragon fire – though it would sear flesh from bone, its fell magic was such that it would not, as other fire would, cause such wounds to cauterise.

Minutes became hours, became days, and spell upon spell, upon prayer fell from her lips, unfailing, unending.

"Lasto, Thranduil, Melethron," she whispered urgently, "Dartho na anim. Lasto beth nín, matho ngalad nín… Rado bardhlein."

Still she could not feel the answering thread of his light, not even brushing against her reaching, searching touch.  She was losing him, he was slipping into the gathering dark against even the weight of her healing energies.

More urgent yet, and in mounting desperation, she reached deeper within herself, having no choice; daring _everything_ to save the one she loved.  Appealing to all that was sacred, to the very essence of Eru itself, and to every star that ever shone.

"Menno o nín na hon i eliad annen annin, hon leitho o ngurth." She barely drew breath to add, "Eterúno hon!"

** ** **

What should have still been dappled green and gold was fading to the red and dull shades of brown, and not simply because autumn had come early to Greenwood the Great.  The truth of the urgent message that had come to Imladris barely four days before came as a flash in his sight and he bent lower against the horse's neck, urging the mount to greater speeds yet as the Greenwood Guard parted before him, granting him free passage across the bridge and into the Royal Halls.

Hooves clattered on the courtyard, and even before Elrond brought the horse to a complete halt, he all but threw himself from the saddle, trusting the Stable Master to see to him and he turned to the Elf approaching him.

He recognised him as the King's Steward, and with barely a brief nod of greeting, he demanded, "Take me to him.  Tell me everything."

"It was dragon fire, my Lord Elrond," Galion said softly, and Elrond hissed as he followed the steward's hurried steps with his own, knowing full well the horror such wounds wrought upon their vicitms.  "As the captain reports it, he was caught almost directly in the creature's breath as he attempted to save those on the front line.  Field surgeons packed the wounds, and…"

Elrond turned a deep frown Galion's way as the other Elf faltered in his telling.

"And?" he demanded with soft urgency.

"Many more of our warriors than those who lost in battle _gave_ their lives to bring him home, and now the Queen—"

"She is with him?" Elrond all but pushed the steward against the wall of the stair which they now hurriedly climbed toward the room at the top of the Northern Spire to bring him to a halt. "What of your healers?"

"My Lord, she will not leave him, nor allow any other to tend him." Galion said, and at the stricken look on the Elf's face, Elrond almost softened, but his heart contracted in fear, and he knew by the steward's words that he was there not to save one life, but two.

Spitting a soft curse, he released Galion, and demanded urgently, "Does _Eluilosloth_ grow within your gardens?" As Galion nodded he continued, "Bring me your strongest fortified wine, and as many blossoms as are still growing.  Hurry."

Without waiting, for he knew the other Elf would obey his command, he turned and took the rest of the steps almost two at once. Entering the Spire's uppermost room, he took in the situation with a quick mind born of many millennia of knowledge and experience.

The queen was half braced against the side of the bed on which Thranduil lay, half slumped over the king, her hand lay against his chest, beneath her, and even from the doorway Elrond could _feel_ the faltering flicker of the magic she passed between them.

He crossed the distance in a heartbeat, throwing back his still mud stained cloak as she sat on the opposite side of the bed from the queen and lay one hand onto the back of her neck while closing his other around her own hand.

"Celyndailiel, farn," he murmured urgently, "Let go.  You cannot help him this way."

As he spoke, he pushed against her failing energies, bolstering her with his own as much as he dared, for to disrupt her magic was a greater risk yet.  She roused enough to register his presence, lifting her head and turning her eyes, which were pale – and bloodshot – with her exhaustion, his way.

"Rest, Celyn," he urged, and all but bodily lifted her from contact with her husband.

"No," she fought him, but weakly, "I cannot."

Her voice was barely a whisper, a gasp in the gathering gloom as the late afternoon sun began to set, and at the quality in it, a deeper fear began inside of Elrond that he was already too late.

"Elrond, please…"  Her struggles continued, but in her current condition she was no match for him, no matter her desperation.  "Let me go…  If I stop I will lose him forever."

At that he bodily lifted her to face him and cupped her face in his hands and _made_ her look at him, and with unmerciful certainty in his voice he told her, "And if you go on, _he_ will lose _you._ "

** ** **

Her sight dimmed, as though her tired eyes could no longer stand the sight of his suffering.

She lost all sense of time and day or night meant little to her. She felt the beat of her heart only in the few short hours when Elrond permitted her near to her beloved – for even he accepted that as close their bond had always been, likely only she could save Thranduil from the clutches of oblivion.  When she rested away from him, she drifted, as if in Shadow.

The food that Elrond gave to her was as ash within her mouth, and the fortified wine, laced with Star-flower left an emptiness that lingered, a hollow that should have been filled with the joyful presence of her Lord and King – her husband, her _soul._

Still he suffered.

It was dark.

No moon graced the sky, and the very stars seemed dimmed above the falling canopy of once great beeches, and towering oaks.  The tide of the heavens was turning, and all of Greenwood stood trembling on the cusp of an hour grown late, yet come far too soon.

She could hear Elrond moving around in the adjoining annex, no doubt creating the salves and other healing preparations with which he had been working so earnestly for the sake of her beloved – all, it seemed, in vain, and in aid of her own, faltering _fae_.

By what shred of will remained, she forced away the dizziness as she sat up, crossed the few steps of distance between the chaise that the servants had brought, on Elrond's orders, and the bed where Thranduil lay, stiller than death.

There remained but one choice, one course left open to her.  He _was_ Greenwood, and if he did not survive, who would be left to stand when Darkness rose once more? For rise it would.

"You _must_ live," she whispered, and around her stillness fell as if the very woodland itself, and the stones of the Halls around them held their breath.

On legs that barely held her she climbed up to settle on the bed beside Eryn Lasgalen's King, and slowly laid her trembling hands, one upon his chest the other on his too-pale brow, and closing her eyes, spoke softly.

"Ai… Fanuilos…. Lasto," she craved, and though her soul grew still, she felt the quiver in her body more keenly, "Lasto beth nín, ainima Elbereth, lasto beth o pen i-vela… Tai ngalad nín, guil nín, lavo han athra na hon."

Her voice slowed and deepened with each successive word she spoke, and she could almost feel the drawing away of all that she was… the answering of her prayer.

"Nai e cuio!"

She let out a long, slow breath at the ending of her words, aware the door behind her had opened, but caring little, not even as Elrond's voice split the air as an anguished cry.

"Celyn, No!" His arms closed around her as she all but fell forward, and he called over his shoulder, "Galion, the cup"

She heard movement behind Elrond, then felt the Elven healer press the cool rim of a cup to her lips, but she pushed it away.

"No more… Elrond," she whispered, "It was my choice.  You have to let me go… to save him."

"There's another way!"

"There _is_ no other way."  She reached up to brush at the tears that fell from Elrond's lashes to his cheek. "For as much as I love him with all that I am, I love the Woodland… our people… my _son_ … and without their king, they will not survive the coming storm."

"Celyn, _hear_ me—" Elrond began, but she cut him off.

"No, Elrond… hear _me:_ this is the only way." She gazed on him with beseeching eyes.  "Lay me in his arms… one last time."

"Oh, Celyndailiel…" she heard her name as a sigh upon Elrond's lips as he set her gently against the king, her head pillowed against his chest, where she heard as well as felt the long, slow, indrawn breath as time, for Celyndailiel, began to slow…

…flow backwards…

_"I think I have seen you here before?"_

_She looked up, startled at the apparently sudden appearance of a figure in front of her.  He was tall, even for an Elf - Sindar, from the look of him, and that was when her quick mind put the pieces together.  This was the Oropher's son, the Prince of the Woodland Realm that his father had established east of the Great River._

_"My Lord, Prince," she greeted him and dipped a low, graceful curtsy but found he caught her hand softly to raise her to her full height once more._

_"No need," he answered softly, and her eyes met his, their ice-blue lights shining, dazzling in her sight._

_She felt herself blush, but would not give in to it, instead she said softly, "Would you care to walk, my Lord?  The gardens here are very beautiful."_

"We walked… for _hours…_ in those gardens…"  Unaware she had done so, she called softly to Galion, placing her ring within his trembling hand, whispering, barely breathing, "Tell him: 'I will return to you…'"

…and ultimately stopped.

** ** **

Days became a march of slowly lessening pain under Elrond's healing care.

Despair lingered… hovering always in the shadows, in the unlit corners of the room he had not left for many moons. He felt its presence like a spectre, feared it in his better moods, and longed to embrace its cold promise of fading to nothing when the absence of his beloved light settled, unshakable, over him… and then he feared it all the more.

"She gave her _life_ for you!" The memory of Elrond's bitter tone struck hard as he barely managed to limp to the balcony of the high spire by leaning on a carven oak staff that Galion and brought for him once the healers – torturers all of them – had insisted he rise from the bed.  "How _dare_ you think to throw such a gift away as though it were _nothing_!"

"You think I don't know that?" he spat in response.  "You think I do not feel her absence with every breath I take, every beat of my shattered heart?"

They fought often.

Any other and he might have been tempted to order the guard to run the other Elf through for his audacity, but they had shared too much, and in his heart he knew that Elrond meant only to help keep him from surrendering to the emptiness that became too large a part of him.

He sighed, closing his eyes, and with fingers still tight with the newness of recently healed skin massaged the ache that settled behind his temples as he had sat peering down into the garden below, his sight still hampered and unbalanced by the absence of it in his ruined left eye.

No spell, no amount of healing, no unguent, magical or otherwise had been able to restore his face or eye to the fullness of health, while the rest of him recovered slowly, even if he were still as weak as a newborn, where once he had been strong.

But he could not… _would_ not reach inside of himself to aid them.  He dare not face the full truth of the absence that he knew he would find inside if he did.

"How much longer will you keep me prisoner here?" he asked as he heard the door open and close behind him – no doubt the herald of Elrond's evening visit.

"Prisoner?" Elrond queried, and came to stand beside him, on his left – deliberate, he knew. An effort to _make_ him face and conquer his disability.  Instead he turned his head.

"Yes, Peredhil, prisoner," he spat, disingenuously.

Elrond ignored the intended slight.

"You are no more kept prisoner here than you would keep yourself, Thranduil," he said and then spreading his arms asked, "But… where do you wish to go?"

Thranduil felt the shaking begin in his limbs, and spread through the whole of him, almost breaking his resolve, almost making him change his mind… almost…

"I wish to see the final resting place of my beloved queen," he whispered past his trembling lips.

"I laid your wife to rest within your arms, Aran nín," Elrond answered, his voice softer than ever before, "where she requested. But… if you wish to visit her memorial, I will take you."

He gripped Elrond's arm as the other Elf moved to his right, and helped him carefully to his feet.  Elrond remained to his right, the wooden staff his steward had given him supported him upon the left, and slowly – agonisingly slowly – the Lord of Imladris guided him down to the Garden of Tranquil Waters that was deep within the walls of his Kingdom.

Almost at the northernmost point of the gardens, it stood, a White doe of carven marble, lying as if in repose beneath the spreading fronds of a cascading silver willow that had been planted, and coaxed by careful nurture to grow strong by Elven magics, between the fall of twin, melodious waterfalls.  The place would feel the touch of the first rays of the morning, as well as the last lingering rays of the evening sun, when the kiss of the moon would find her.  She would never be without light – for even on a moonless night, the bright stars in the heavens overhead would grace her with their silvering.

"Hanon le, mellon nín," Thranduil whispered as he sank to his knees before the memorial, tears filling his eyes.

He saw Elrond shake his head.

"Many hundreds of years ago," The tone in Elrond's voice as Thranduil look up at him, a frown upon his face, waiting for him to continue.  Elrond settled nearby with a sigh before he did.  "I saw this…" he gestured, and then clarified, "…saw _you_ kneeling before such a monument.  At the time, I assumed I was seeing what had already happened, and that it was your mother's monument after Doriath was lost to Middle Earth… but as Celyn began to fade… I knew I had been wrong."

Thranduil hung his head as the softness of Elrond's words brought the full weight of all the sorrow and loss to his mind, and his tears finally fell – for all his lost kin, and all those left behind at their fading, but most of all, for his beloved Celyn, who had been the only anchor, the only reason in the many long centuries, since he was thrust into the adult world as Doriath fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lasto, Thranduil, Melethron – Hear me, Thanduil, my love
> 
> Dartho na anim – stay with me
> 
> Lasto beth nín, matho ngalad nín… Rado bardhlein. – hear me, feel my light… find your way home
> 
> Menno o nín na hon i eliad annen annin, hon leitho o ngurth – May the Grace given to me, pass to him. Let him be spared from death.
> 
> Eterúno hon! – save him!
> 
> Celyndailiel, farn – Celyndailiel, enough
> 
> Fae - soul
> 
> Ai… Fanuilos…. Lasto – Oh, Ever-White… Hear me
> 
> Lasto beth nín, ainima Elbereth – Hear me, Blessed Elbereth
> 
> lasto beth o pen i-vela… – hear the plea of one who loves…
> 
> Tai ngalad nín, guil nín, lavo han athra na hon. – What light, what life is mine, let it pass to him.
> 
> Nai e cuio! – may he live!
> 
> Aran nín – my king
> 
> Hanon le, mellon nín – Thank you, my friend


	6. Le U-Erui

Third Age of Middle Earth – 2840

 

_Adisto, le u-erui_

 

"You did well today."

Thranduil swept into the dressing area adjacent to the armoury as what had been a long day finally came to a close.  He waited while Legolas changed out of his armour and into more comfortable robes, but the sight of his son in his finery did little to calm the unsettled emotions that had burned inside of Thranduil since the capture of the young Elf earlier that day, and the echoes she had awoken within him.  He turned and began to mount the small stair out of the chamber that led through one of the many inner conservatories, carefully tended within the Halls

"Walk with me," he commanded softly.

He had received the report from his master at arms concerning both Legolas' and Captain Tauriel's patrols, and their efforts in clearing the woodland of the ever increasing presence of Orcs and other creature by far more foul, and had been beside Legolas the day before, fighting as one, father and son united, and he wanted to Legolas to know that he was proud of him.

Yet, there was another reason he wished to talk with his son, though judging from the expression on Legolas' face as he fell into step beside his father, talk of his intended, albeit brief, departure would have to wait.

"You do not agree," he as much stated as asked.

"There are more than just Orcs within our borders," Legolas said.  "Close.  Too close."

Thranduil's unsettled feeling surged, but he would not allow the emotion to show on his face.  Sooner or later he was going to have to share his thoughts and feelings with Legolas, but not before _he_ was more settled with what those feelings might mean, for all of them.  Still, he was curious to learn what it was that Legolas meant.

"What are you talking about?" he asked.

"Yesterday.  I thought I felt something," his son said, "in the trees by the River Gate, but when I looked I could see nothing, and then the feeling was gone."

Thranduil considered Legolas' words, and in the light of what the day had brought to his Halls, the king could only assume that Legolas was speaking of Nieniriathlim, a fact that his son confirmed only a moment later, as he added, "And today, I learn that a prisoner was taken, an Elf attempting to penetrate our defences?"

"Not a prisoner," he corrected Legolas, matter of fact, "a guest."

As he spoke the words he felt a tightening in his chest. If he was right… if his hopes were proven founded, what then?  How would he tell his son?  With a deep breath, he tried to still his mind and added, "For now."

"Ada?"

Legolas' soft query brought him out of his thoughtfulness, and with a wave of his hand both to dismiss the question, and to command his own emotions, he began to walk slowly toward the pathway leading to the Royal Apartments, wherein lay his own, and Legolas' private chambers.

"The day has been long," he answered, "and has brought many questions best served by careful thought and rest."

He turned his head as he suspected Legolas about to argue, but his son simply nodded, and he felt the acceptance of his wisdom, then together the two walked in silence until they reached the small platform where they would part ways.  They came to a halt then, almost in the same moment, and Thranduil realised that he had not yet divulged his intention to ride to Imladris, even though much remained unsettled there in his realm.

He sighed softly.

He needed to rest, to examine what he knew; to set all straight within his mind, before he could leave.  The matter of Esgaroth's apparent betrayal of their standing arrangement troubled him.  It could not be coincidence that so many things had come at once.  In his experience, such things were always the herald of some approaching ill.

He was also much disturbed by the continued rise of the Shadow, the evil he felt from the old fortress at Amon Lanc – and as always a lance of hurt went through his heart when he thought on the once imposing fortress that had been his father's capital in the Great Greenwood.  He had long since sent word to the White Council, via Elrond, and yet… nothing.  No one had answered, and all they maintained was their watchful peace.  Not that he had a problem with defending his own realm, only that some better form of acknowledgement would have been more of a comfort.  The Orcs and foul creatures that marred his kingdom were a rising menace, but not yet so out of control that he could not hold his people safe, and yet…

As if his son had been reading his thoughts, Legolas asked, "The prisoner from Laketown?"

"Morning will be soon enough for us to find out the truth of his purpose," he turned a bitterly sarcastic smile across the space between him and where his beloved son still remained, immobile beside the steps that led to his rooms.  "A further night held within the walls of our prison may yet serve to loosen his tongue."

"As you wish," Legolas answered, but still did not move, so Thranduil tipped his head in query.

"Is there something more?" he asked.

"By your leave, I should like to have our patrols take one more sweep around the borders, by the river before the moon sets." Legolas said.  "Though, by your word, you have taken the Elf as guest, not prisoner, Laketown's betrayal is unmistakable, and where there was one intruder, there may be more."

"No," Thranduil answered, and as he did a single roll of thunder passed overhead outside the Halls. The second such disturbance in as many days and herald of more to come.  He found that troubled him too, but returning his attention to his now frowning son, he explained, "I need you rested.  In the morning I mean to leave for Imladris, and you will govern in my stead until I return."

He turned then, to mount the steps toward his own chambers, ordering his son, "Come to me at first light, and we shall discuss the matter of the man of the lake.  Until then, rest."

Thranduil, however, did not go to his rest, as he had intended.

Many hours passed and still he found himself pacing in his chambers, in his mind replaying all that he had seen, and felt, since the first flash of silver-white that crossed his path the day before and the coming of the young Elf, and in spite of telling himself time and time over for the need to be cautious, not to accept what appeared to be simply for its appearance, he found himself examining the lore he knew concerning the not unprecedented cases of reincarnation among his Elven kin.  There was so much that was different – too much – and whether that proved his hope to be in error, and even the thought of such a thing caused a sharp pain, an almost physical ache deep in his chest, or whether it meant that it was, in truth, his Celyn returned to him, and there was some, as yet unknown, reason for the deviation from accepted lore, he did not yet know.

All that he knew, in that moment, was that he could lose himself quite easily to this beautiful young Elf, and one way or another, that could prove to be dangerous and yet… in spite of her differences, she _was_ an echo of his love.  How could he not? His heart lurched again at the thought, and turning quickly, he retraced his earlier steps from his chambers, and headed for the gardens beneath the Northern Spire.

** ** **

Nieniriathlim paced back and forth across the floor of the fine chamber to which the King had shown her, and even though he had apologised for the simple nature of the room, and assured her that, as soon as it could be facilitated, she would be moved to more suitable accommodations, the room was far grander than anything she had ever been used to.

She had rested, and breakfasted on delicious foods, and sweet nectars, and ladies had attended her, providing her with fresh, and fine clothing, and through the day had guided her at length around lovely conservatories, and echoing chambers filled with the melody of falling waters.

It was beautiful.  It was perfect.  It felt so natural and right, but… that frightened her, for she did not understand how or why it should.

Evening fell, and a finely dressed steward attended her, with words of apology from the king that he could not join her, as he had planned, to share the evening meal, for matters of state kept him. She was to please take her rest, and he would make every effort to breakfast with her the following morning.

The steward left, and more ladies swept in upon her, bearing trays of food, and fine wine, and their company, though reserved – almost, in some cases, shy enough to cause her to be uncomfortable – was welcome enough.  Then the moon rose, and at the call of an Elven horn, the ladies bid her farewell, and left.

At first she tried to rest, but her mind was too full of all the things of which she had yet to make sense, for nothing in the whirlwind of a day had been settled.   There was so much she did not understand, and it only added to her fear, and her sudden longing to find her way outside, to make her way home.

Her parents were right.  She should never have come.  She should not have disobeyed them.  She could not, however deny that against _all_ of that she also wanted to be there – right where she was.

"I don't understand," she said aloud and her breathing hitched in her chest as, so deep in the Halls that she felt, rather than heard, the rumble overhead, the room spun around her, and she clutched at the stone wall as dislocation of sight and sound thrust the sense of another time upon her.

_She was sitting beside the small pool in a garden, a breeze stirred the surface of the water, and the vision came upon her before she could hope to breathe it away, a deep red wave full of cries and pain and desolation. It was all she could hear, even as she reeled away, fought for her feet and raced toward the one place of shelter, of stability amid the madness, that she knew she would find.  She had to stop him.  He could not leave._

_She found him in his chambers, at rest on the chaise beside his balcony, not upon the bed, and as she burst through the door he came to his feet at once, caught her as she scrambled across the top of the bed to reach him, his hands closing around her upper arms as she grasped the edges of his robe, pulled on him desperately, trembling until his fingers grasped her almost painfully, almost shaking her… almost.  Instead he pulled her close._

Nieniriathlim gasped audibly as the same vision that brought her to the Halls of the Elvenking flowed through her again, sight only, there was no sound. She could not hear the words they said, she and the king, though she felt them with emotion so fraught that tears came unbidden to her eyes. She let go of the stone against which she had had braced herself, still not fully aware, and stumbled gracelessly, knocking a single vase from a round wooden table, before she turned and fled the room, running blindly, unknowing of where she ran.

As she flew through the Halls, her steps taking her downward, guards shifted, but only to come to attention, none tried to stop her. Not until suddenly, through a carven arch, she burst into the open air of a well-tended garden within high, ornate walls, did any move to hinder her or follow her flight. These did.  The guards flanking the door stepped swiftly after her, hands closing more tightly around the shafts of their polearms as they did.

As the ground underfoot changed, and as the cooler air outside hit her, she took a deeper breath and as if waking, shuddered, and all but skidded to a halt, and hearing sound behind her turned back to the doorway, looking first one way, and then another, and seeing the guards – armed and apparently stalking her – she began to back away.

"I'm sorry," she stammered, "If I am not permitted here, I will—"

As one, the guards stopped advancing, though they maintained a ready, watchful pose, with their weapons at the ready, their gaze fixed beyond her, and with another backward step, Nieniriathlim spun around, and barely avoided the solid wall of silver brocade that was the king's broad chest, before becoming enfolded in the heavy drape of silk as arms came up to steady her.

With a light gasp she looked up at him, for even though she held the stature of her Elven heritage, he towered over her, and found herself caught in the strength within his eyes.

"Gwao o vín," he instructed the guards behind her, though his eyes never left hers, and narrowed barely noticeably within the slightest of frowns that crept to grace his brow as he tipped his head and softer yet, said, "Why such haste, Nienanín?"

Her heartbeat faltered, and the fluttering that settled in her belly made it hard to catch her breath.  She could find no answer, save the light blush that crept to her cheeks as she thought herself foolish to have run so from a simple roll of thunder from a now clearing sky.

"I had thought you at rest," he continued a moment later when still she had not answered, and the intense heat of his nearness faded as he stepped away and to her side, releasing her and offering instead a hand, held in courtly fashion, awaiting her own.

"I… was, my Lord," she found her voice at last, and slipped her hand to rest atop his.  As she did, he began to walk, turning toward where she could see the silver crescent of the moon scarcely risen above the high walls and towering trees.

"Yet here we are," he said, "the both of us, far from rest.  Tell me, what is it has disturbed you?"

"It is foolish," she said, a tiny shrug lifting her shoulders.  She sensed he looked at her, and glanced up to see him raise an eyebrow in expectation.

"I consider nothing that could provoke such flight through my Halls as foolish," he said.  "Tell me."

He released her hand then to allow her to cross a small, carved wooden bridge across a stream that flowed across their path, following her a moment later, as she answered him.

"It was the thunder, my Lord," she said, telling him only half of the truth and fully intending to speak not of the vision it had summoned. "I feared it as the herald of a storm."

"This forest has seen many storms, Nieniriathlim," he answered softly, taking up her hand again as they continued to walk through the pathways of the moonlit garden, "and has stood against them all."

Nieniriathlim could not help but shiver at the tone she almost _felt_ behind his words, rather than heard.  It was fleeting, barely there, and only for a moment, still, she sensed a loneliness, a longing deeper than any river, and queried, "My Lord?"

"Why would you fear such a thing?"

His question brought a sudden rush of panic, and for a moment, as she looked up at him, she saw her hands gripping the edges of his robe, and yet… not her hands, for the ones that held the edges of the silver fabric caught within their grasp were those of a wedded Elf, the index finger graced with a shining white gem. Words fell unbidden from her trembling lips.

"For as long as I can remember," she told him, "I have feared such a storm, as if it were some... terrible harbinger of the breaking of my heart; the loss of everything that gives my life meaning."

"Lau, hiril nín," his fingers tightened around hers, almost painfully, for a moment, before she heard him take a breath, and relaxing his grip, stroked his thumb across the back of her hand almost apologetically.  "You are protected from such storms here, for their time is passed, and by the Grace of the Valar, will ever remain so.  For now, in this kingdom, peace endures, and sun and moon both shine as they must, so… be sure of heart."

She took a breath, uncertainty nipping at the edges of all that she had learned, even though everything she was cried out to allow herself to become lost in his reassurance, to embrace it.  What if these visions she saw were not visions at all, but memories… echoes of some long passed tragedy somehow trapped within the fabric of the present; these walls allowing her to see the more of all that had been – all that was.  The thought made her look again to the king.

"And… you, my Lord?"  He looked at her quizzically, and she clarified, "You also are kept from your rest."

His expression softened, and with the merest shake of his head he denied the concern.

"Matters of state," he said softly, though she felt a slight hesitation in the play of his muscles before he answered, "And I must crave your forgiveness, for they are such matters as will take me from my realm, albeit briefly, and from oversight of your care."

Another flurry of fear troubled her heart and stomach to change places, and as he turned their steps toward a doorway leading in to a many balconied tower, she gripped his hand in an expression of that worry.

"You need not fear," he stopped beside the doorway to the tower and turned to face her as guards at its base pushed open the door. "In my absence you shall be well cared for."

"It is not for myself that I am concerned, my Lord," she answered softly, honestly, and as his expression turned to query she added, "For you have been... most kind and understanding, especially to one as unfit for court as I."

She watched as he waved away the thought, and gestured to an Elf within the open doorway who came forth, to stand patiently at Nieniriathlim's shoulder as the king said quietly, "Go with my steward.  He will show you to the apartments that I wish for you to occupy from this moment on."

"Of course, my Lord," she answered, "Only…"

"Yes?"

"Please… though you _are_ Eryn Galen, and Her people and their safety lodge ever within your heart," The words, falling from her lips were the most natural expression of the truth that she knew in her very soul was so. She felt it. She _knew_ it... knew _him_ in that moment and understood that this was the tension he had not expressed when she had asked of the reasons for his restlessness, and did not question it. "Whenever the reach of Shadow wearies you toward despair, remember that you are _not_ alone."

For a moment she felt as though time had stopped, and neither he nor she drew breath, even though she heard the sound of the steward behind her moving almost nervously, and then the moment broke, and the king closed his eyes, and let out a long slow breath as he tipped his head in a graceful, sedate bow, that stretched the silence a moment longer.  Then he raised his head and spoke.

"Go now with Galion, and please forgive me.  It will be many days before we speak again."  There was almost a tightness of emotion in his voice, and she saw him swallow before he added, "Know that you will be attended soon by more appropriate company."

"Yes, my Lord," she felt the need to whisper her ascent, and accepted Galion's arm as he moved to guide her inside, from the corner of her eye noticing the king's gesture to one of the guards, who followed the steward a step or two behind.

"Nieniriathlim!"

The king's soft call halted them, and the guard stepped aside as she turned back to Thranduil.

"I am glad we found you," he said softly.

She looked up again then, a smile softening her startled expression as she caught a glimpse of the warmth behind the ice that sat in his eyes; the warmth of the starlight for which she named him.

"And I am glad to have been found," she answered. Then releasing him from what felt like some kind of obligation to remain, she added, "Stay safe in whatever matters keep you from me, until you deem it right that you return." She gave him a soft curtsy then before rising to turn away. "I am, after all... your servant."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gwao o vín, - leave us
> 
> Lau, hiril nín – no, my lady
> 
> Quotation at the head of the chapter is Niena's plea to Thranduil to remember that he is not alone.


	7. I Lant o Doriath

First Age of Middle Earth – 506

 

_Sen pân gwesta: gurth hon annatham nan i-vent aur, naeg tenna i-vent i-amar._

 

He could feel his mother's eyes on him as he hurried to ready himself.

Ever more frequent, since the message came that sent his father and others of the older warriors out upon long hours of patrol in the woodlands of Neldoreth, Nivrim and Region; even more often since Dior had answered the missive with rejection, did he feel her hovering in his doorway.

Slowly he and turned to her, holding out his hand.

He said softly, "When will you tell me what troubles you?"

She came to him then, slipping her hand onto his arm, and holding tightly as she looked up at him, and shook her head.

"I have no need to speak of it, Thranduil," she answered, "for it is already upon us, and soon we will be swept in its tide toward all that will come after."

"More riddles, Naneth?" he sighed softly. "Ada is right.  You have spent too much time in worry."

"And yet your Adar is arrayed for war," she answered, "And you also, Ionen."

He lifted her hand from his arm, holding her trembling fingers in his hand, and gesturing toward the hallway, beyond his rooms, that led out from Menegroth, said, "Oath, curse or otherwise, Naneth, these are our _people_ and I cannot, I _will_ not allow them to come to harm undefended.  There are _children_ here."

"You are barely more than a child yourself," she said.  "Battle now, and you will spend your _life_ in conflict and war.  Will you not spare yourself?"

He shook his head.

"I will spare those who _cannot_ save themselves.  Naneth, you _know_ this is right." He pushed her gently toward the door, feeling the chill of foresight surrounding her words, and his own. "You must go to safety, and I must face this oncoming darkness."

"If we part now, I will never see you again," she said. "Thranduil, please!"

"No," he said firmly.  "You must forgive me, but it is my duty."  Briefly he embraced her, slipping out of her arms when he thought she would have tried to hold him back.  "Find safety, and help the others if you can."

Then with no further word, he snatched sword from sheath, and hurried down the winding stone stair, and into a tide of war from which he and his kin had, for so long, been protected.

** ** **

For the second time in less than the passing of even half a decade, the forests and pathways of Doriath ran with the blood of Elves. The steps underfoot were slick, and the iron scent filled his every breath, leaving him weakened with nausea, his eyes hot and sore from the smoke of the burning, and unshed tears for the loss so many lives.

At the scuff of a foot at his back he spun, tired arms aching with the effort of raising twin blades in defence against the descending Elven steel, growling denial; every sensibility railing in silent, horrified protest at crossing blades with another Elf.

"This need not be!" he ground out, pushing against the other's blades as he locked his own against them, but even then, he knew his words, his persuasive wisdom came too late to reach the other, as he saw the darkness of hatred in his eyes, as glancing down he caught sight of the red-black stain of blood beneath his feet.

Heaving hard to force the other back far enough to free his steel to move, and with the cries of the hurt and dying around him; the cries of children slain without mercy, Thranduil pushed away the righteous reservations of his youth, and embraced the cold of the truth.  The only defence left to Doriath was to attack, to fight.

No time for fatigue, no time for thought, he focussed inward, became one with the play of his muscles, the circle of his blades, the thrust and parry; pattern of the deadly dance.  Steel rang against steel, and blue sparks flew in the dimness of the caverns through which the battles took him.  Unfailing and unyielding he fought off all he came against until the blood of his kin stained his  innocence with a ghostly echo of an older time, but all before him found their end as he defended – with every breath he took – those who would have otherwise met a merciless end.

Fierce and terrible the axe that felled the mighty kingdom of Doriath.  Deep into the night, they fought, and Thranduil among them.  Deep into the dark and cold until the battle came at last to the great hall, and small pockets – knots of fearsome warriors caught in the ferocity of their battle – were all that was left of the two great hosts.

Barely ahead of a trio of deadly kinsman that stalked him, Thranduil came.  The flickering light of torches a sombre sheen turned crimson where it once had flickered bright and silver in the reflected splendour of the Halls of Menegroth.

The burden of such a horrible truth weighted his heart sorely, but as he came ahead of the three, blades raised and ready, he caught then the sight that first cracked his resolve: lying broken upon his side, Dior Eluchîl, his fair and beautiful light shattered; his expression, even in death, one of despair.  His hand lay outstretched toward another, softer hand, for nearby him lay Nimloth, his queen, her pale gown awash with her life's blood from the wound so visible across her back.  She had been cut down from behind, and Dior come too late to save her.

Despair and anger warred in Thranduil as he turned to face his pursuers, turning their blades aside on the edges of his own even as they came at him, two of them moving past the third they flanked, and he turning his sword left handed about his one remaining hand, his wild, auburn hair a firestorm around his head.

"Why!" Thranduil hissed, recognising at once the eldest of the Sons of Fëanor. "They were _not_ your enemy!"

Kinsmen fairly flew past Thranduil, taking Maedhros' companions into battles of their own as the Noldor answered his question with the cruel thrust of his blade.

"He _made_ himself so," Maedhros said as his heavy blade sliced toward Thranduil's head with such force that the younger Elf knew he could not hope to parry it. "When he refused our summons."

Instead Thranduil spun aside, both his blades apart, one high one low, in spinning striking Maedhros armour on the side, sending shimmering sparks into the dim hall.

" _He_ , perhaps," Thranduil countered, pressing the advantage of his sudden move, and advancing on the Noldorin Prince, twin swords flashing in the torchlight. "Bereth tín u-neithol!"

Bitterly his blows fell, and the time for parlay was long passed, the sands of its hourglass running with the royal blood across the flagstones at his feet.  His assay was met, parried, just as _he_ turned aside the incoming repost, but he was tiring and with each successive parry grew later and almost too late, and each strike he made fell weaker, until growling, Maedhros leaped ahead, swinging his blade wildly in advance, and Thranduil felt the sting of hot Elven steel shear the plate at his chest.

Hissing in pain, he barely thought to raise both blades, overhead and crossed to catch Maedhros' following, descending stroke, and the three blades locked, Thranduil's arms straining as he fought to hold back the older Elf's attack.

"He killed my brothers," Maedhros growled.

"They _invited_ death," Thranduil spat, "as have you all, but you _murdered_ his beloved light, perhaps not by your own hand but—"

"Thranduil!"

An urgent, almost terrified cry of his name cut off his bitter accusation, and Thranduil risked a glance behind.  All remaining breath went out from him, though not the fight, nor the strength of his arms, which in the agony of discovery redoubled.

In the far entrance to the Great Hall of Menegroth stood Oropher. His father was bloodied, his cloak and armour in tatters, advancing before all that was left of his comrades at arms… but in his arms he cradled the limp and broken form of Thranduil's mother.

"Mûl o Morgoth!"

Heat and light exploded in Thranduil at the realisation of his mother's faltering life, and renewed strength and vigour flowed into his limbs, as if spring was newly come and not the dead of winter as it felt in his heart.  Pushing hard, he sent Maedhros' blade all but flying away, following the Elf Prince as he gave ground, a cold light burning in his eyes as blow upon blow fell upon the elder's faltering guard.  As if the very heart of Doriath had entered him and invigorated his speed and skill, Thranduil struck until, catching the guard of Maedhros' blade with the tip of his offhand sword, he sent the steel away, and pressed the tip of his other against the Norldorin Elf's throat.

"On your knees," he snarled, bringing the offhand blade to join the first as – clearly knowing he was beaten – and his death was at hand, Maedhros slowly sank to the flagstones, eyes locked with Thranduil's burning orbs.  Thranduil crossed his blades at the Maedhros' throat. "Join your brothers in—"

"Ionen, no!"

It was not Oropher's cry that stilled his hand, but the flickering light he thought he saw at by his left hand, a softness in the dark… and words came to him, whispering as if upon an unfelt breeze.

_Let him be spared… The children… … Find them…_

He turned his head to peer through the soft light to his father and the Elves with him.

"Where are the children?" he demanded, uncaring of who answered, keeping Maedhros in place upon his knees.  "Where are Eluréd and Elurín…? Elwing?"

"The twins were taken by Celegorm's servants," Oropher answered, "Where their sister is…"

He shook his head, and Thranduil could only assume that she also was taken.  He slowly turned his gaze back to Maedhros, fresh anger burning upon the bed of coals already inside of him, listening to the soft, internal whisper of a truth he did not understand how he knew… T _he Silmaril is no longer here…_ even as Maedhros offered desperate but empty assurances.

"We do not wage war upon the innocent."

Leaning down, his voice soft and full of menace, putting pressure on the blades that held the Nordorin Prince at his mercy, Thranduil challenged, "Do you not?"

He did not expect an answer, letting the dead and dying in the Hall speak to the answer as – keeping one blade at Maedhros' throat – he grasped the Elf's braided hair and turned his gaze to look upon the slain queen of Doriath.

"Prove it," Thranduil hissed.  "Man anira han u-hemp hi!"

He straightened, forcing Maedhros' head back on the edge of his blade, and uncaring that he addressed an elder, an Elf more noble than he; with an arrogance that belied his years and status, ordered, "Find your brother's servant, return the children – if you wish to live."

Maedhros nodded carefully, his eyes never leaving Thranduil's, and only when Thranduil was certain that his answer was genuine did he remove the blade, sheath it, and instruct the others of his kin, "Take him, and cast him into the forest to begin his search."

The Elves looked to his father, now the Elf of greatest rank within the Halls of Menegroth, and Thranduil saw his father nod his ascent.  Only then did they move to follow his command.

He did not care.

As they dragged the Noldorin prince from the Great Hall, Thranduil turned and joined his father as Oropher knelt with his mother still in his arms, and Thranduil wept as the mantle of authority fell from about him and he felt the truth of his mother's passing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Naneth – mother
> 
> Ada/Adar – dad/father
> 
> Ionen – my son
> 
> Bereth tín u-neithol – his queen was innocent
> 
> Mûl o Morgoth – Literal translation is Servant of Morgoth, however, since there are no cuss-invectives in Elvish, you can assume this to be the worst insult an Elf could utter
> 
> Man anira han u-hemp hi – that which you seek is not here
> 
> The quotation at the head of the chapter is the Sindarin form of a line of the Oath of Feanor, and means: _This we all swear: death him we will give ere the Day's End, agony till the World's End_


	8. I Wend U-lam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the crafting of this chapter I wish to once again thank Nancy for her help, her ear and simply for being there.

Third Age of Middle Earth – 2840

 

_Na sui gûl dhelu egor maenas ne gar i ûr tyfn o mínsto i vela athar phân nauth?_

 

Tauriel slowly made her way down into the conservatory, where she had been told the Lady Nieniriathlim could be found, her mind straying back to the brief conversation she had shared with the king on the day of his departure for Imladris.

_"Watch her, gain a measure of her, and then earn her trust," he said. "For I desire a second pair of eyes, free of the taint of all things passed."_

_"Do you not trust her, my Lord?" Tauriel asked softly._

_"I doubt she is a threat," he told her without directly answering the question, "In fact, if what I feel is correct, by far the opposite."_

_Sitting in his throne, had any other seen him, arms laid in gracious curves on the rests of the chair, long legs unevenly extended, they might have thought him relaxed.  But Tauriel saw his free hand flex, saw the line of vexation near his dark brow, and the storm gathered behind his pale blue eyes, and knew that he was far from at rest._

_"My Lord?" she asked softly._

_There was a moment in which she thought he had not heard, and never before had she seen him that way, but then he cast off the strange mood, unfolded his tall frame from where he sat, and descended the steps to her side._

_"_ W _atch her keenly, Tauriel, become first her shadow, and then her protector.  Ensure that the servants she has been assigned afford her every courtesy; see to her every need." He instructed, and then added as if almost an afterthought, "and report to me upon my return."_

She knew the king did not speak anything as an afterthought, and so for several days, she had followed his command, first watching the timid explorations the young Elf – probably not much older than Tauriel was herself – made of her new surroundings, watching from the shadows, as she became more familiar with the rooms adjacent to the apartments in which she had been given leave to stay.

That also had left many within the halls unsettled and wondering.  For millennia, those apartments had lain empty, untouched, and yet, after speaking with her, the king had ordered the rooms be made available to his guest.

Tauriel took a breath to shake off the half-realised awe she felt as she looked on the undeniably beautiful Elf, and finally stepped from out of the shadows, descending the short stair that led down to where she was sitting reading.

Her head was bent over the pages of the book, and her brow furrowed as though in concentration; her golden hair tumbled around her shoulders and the fall of the blue and silver gown sparkled around her like the spray of the many waterfalls that graced the Halls of the Elvenking. It was easy – too easy – to believe the whispers that had begun to fall from lips within the court of the king.

"My Lady," Tauriel said to announce herself, once she reached the foot of the stair, and as the Elf looked up from the book, Tauriel offered her a smile, and bent her head in a brief bow.

"Please," the Elven woman said.  Her voice was quiet, melodic and soft in countenance; gentle, though it held an obvious trace of discomfort as she went on.  "You do not need to show such graces with me."  She folded her hands across the book she had been reading, her fingers almost tight against the edges of it as she looked up at Tauriel, to add, "I think I have seen you round about these past several days."

It was so softly spoken, the admission to Tauriel that she had noticed her constant presence, and yet without any accusation or anything other than honest query in her voice.

"Yes," Tauriel answered, "My Lord Thranduil bade me to watch over you."

The lady Nieniriathlim nodded then, and setting the book aside came to her feet, and holding out her hands to Tauriel, as though she wished for her to take them, she said, "Then you have my thanks.  May I know you name?"

In spite of the unexpected feelings, almost of reverence, that she felt for the other Elf Tauriel found herself reaching for, and closing her fingers around the other's hands.  The warmth she felt from her was unmistakable.

"Tauriel," she said, squeezing the Elf's fingers softly. "I am a captain of the Woodland Guard."

"Tauriel," the lady Nieniriathlim repeated, then softer yet asked, "Can we walk?"

"If you wish it," Tauriel answered, and released her hands, gesturing away from the two of them. "Where is it that you wish to go?"

The Elven woman shook her head, appearing at once crestfallen and apologetic – a strange expression – as she said, "It is hard to name a destination or desire when all around you is unknown."

Tauriel regarded her carefully, very aware, of a sudden, that she was not simply speaking of the unfamiliarity of her surroundings, and though she did not for one moment cast off her duties as captain of the Woodland guard, and her responsibility for the safety of the Halls, she allowed herself to relax a little, and offered the young Elf a brighter smile.

"Come," she said, and almost chuckled softly, "I know where we can go, where we might speak unhindered by the confines of such walls as these."

The Lady Nieniriathlim reached out then to touch her arm, lightly, but with an unmistakable expression of honest thanks.

"Hanon le," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

** ** **

Elrond looked up from the books that littered his desk, a soft frown creasing his face as he registered the presence behind him, hovering in the doorway, and in the next moment the almost apologetic sound of his steward clearing his throat, as though hesitant to disturb him.

"My Lord Elrond," Lindir said softly, "Outriders have spotted a company of Elves nigh upon the Ford of the Bruinen.  Spring green silks bearing the deeper green diamond-star, and the White Hart."

Shock ran through Elrond and standing, he turned to give his full attention to the Lindir, and what he was saying.

"Thranduil?" he questioned, though in reality the question was moot – the banners that had been seen announced his presence, "Here?"

"It would appear so, my Lord," Lindir answered, raising an eyebrow at the frown upon his face.

Though he had received many long messages from the Elvenking in recent years, for the most part concerning business with the White Council, he had not seen Thranduil in many centuries; not in fact since his beloved Celebrian had departed for the Undying Lands, and the king, in some unexpected moment of solidarity, had come to him to offer comfort.  As he mused on that moment in his past, sighing softly as his enforced solitude enfolded him, he supposed the two of them had always had some kind of unspoken connection.  It was not unlike an uncomfortable splinter that each took turns to extract from the other.  A close, yet strange and estranged friendship that was nurtured by their shared moments of sorrow, for he had been with Thranduil when his queen had faded even as she tried to save his life.

Thinking on it further, he recognised how much it was a shame.  He _liked_ the other Elf, and felt that more than just calamity should draw them together, from time to time.  Still, for the king to have arrived unannounced in Imladris…

Shaking his head, he swept toward his steward, knowing they had little time to prepare to receive their visitor in the manner in which he should be welcomed.

"Inform the kitchens.  Have guest quarters prepared, and for goodness sake make sure to have several bottles of decent wine brought up from the cellars," he said, and started toward the stair that led down into the courtyard where the visitors would enter Imladris, then calling over his shoulder as he went, even as he heard Lindir's soft steps moving to set in motion all those things that he had just commanded, he added,  "And warn my sons that we have visitors and that I shall require their presence at dinner."

"That will not sit well with Elrohir," Lindir offered as he accompanied Elrond part of the way down the stairs.  "I believe he and Glorfindel had plans to—"

"Elrohir and Glorfindel will both survive without _one_ evening of constant discussion of horsemanship," he interrupted, and clapped Lindir briefly on the shoulder before they parted ways, and he completed the descent to the courtyard.

He arrived in time to see the Elvenking dismount, and was relieved to see that not only his stable hands, but Imladris' Master of the Stables, had moved to take charge of the horses.  He reached the foot of the stair, and placing a hand over his heart, he swept a low bow to the king, acknowledging his status, before reaching out to greet him in the manner of a friend; gripping his arms and drawing him to the shared, mutual embrace.

"Thranduil," he greeted him, "Mae govannen an Imladris."

He drew back then and offered a smile, though his eyes retained a seriousness all the same, and spoke of his concern for his fellow Elf.

"My home and my staff are at your disposal, of course," he added then, gesturing to the stairway he had just descended. "Refreshments, perhaps?  I am certain to have a bottle of Winyard that we could share as your recover yourself from your journey."

"Truly your hospitality is unmatched, Lord Elrond," Thranduil answered, nodding officially, and his eyes held the softness of a smile, haunted though it remained.

"Then we shall retire to my study," Elrond suggested, sensing that whatever it was that Thranduil wished to discuss would not wait, in spite of the Elvenking's almost legendary patience. "Though I must crave that you excuse the state of my desk – in disarray as always."

"I did not mean to disturb your work, Elrond," Thranduil answered as they began to ascend the steps together.

Elrond waved away the concern.  "Think nothing of it, my friend," he said.  "I think perhaps I needed an excuse, after all, to draw my nose from out of musty tomes and scrolls almost as old as we."

Then staying beside the king, maintaining a protocol that would appear to have the higher ranking Elf 'leading' the way, they made their way back up toward the private study, and Elrond could not help but wonder what could possibly have brought the Elvenking so far from the safety of his halls.

Once the door to the study was closed behind them, he heard Thranduil sigh deeply and Elrond crossed to the side of the study where his ever attentive steward had placed a fresh decanter of wine, he lifted off the stopper and poured out two generous cups.

"Intuition tells me," he said, as he poured the wine, "that this visit has very little to do with matters pertaining to the disturbances at Amon Lanc."

"Your intuition," Thranduil answered, with more than a little trace of irony in his voice, "is sharp as always, Elrond.  What brings me is a far more personal matter."

"More personal than the safety of your realm?" Elrond turned to him then, gesturing to the low couch that graced the balcony he suggested wordlessly that they should sit. "I do not think, as long as I have known you, that I have ever heard you suggest such a thing."

"Do you not?" Thranduil answered, cradling the cup that Elrond handed to him, and Elrond watched as he lowered himself, as though weighed with weariness, into the couch, crossing his legs, and looking long into the golden darkness of the wine.  "I have a guest within my Halls.  An Elven maiden that was apprehended as she attempted to make a clandestine entry."

As Thranduil began to speak, Elrond turned to lean upon the balcony rail and lifted a brow in surprise at the manner of his opening, as well as to prompt him to continue.

"She was brought to me as I was dealing with an unsavoury character out of Esgaroth, and I assumed, at first, that she was an accomplice," the king went on, then paused and Elrond watched his attention drift, as though thinking on the matter once more.

"But?" he prompted, the word gathering Thranduil's attention once more, and Elrond found himself feeling unsettled by the king's words as one might when a change in the weather was coming. He would not allow himself to think _a storm_ but the feeling was there, and he found himself much in need of the tranquillity of Imladris' gardens.

"As she was about to be taken away she said three words... _Heleg ad gwilith_."

Elrond blinked, trying to keep his face an impassive mask. He had known only one person who had ever spoken such words of Thranduil – those exact words, to be precise. Was it possible? He recalled the dreadful day that had been the Queen of Greenwood's passing. The way he had done all but risk his own life to prevent her fading - all in vain. He looked over at Thranduil as the king finally made the admission that confirmed Elrond's line of thinking, and unable to school his expression any more, Elrond looked away, out over the gardens.

"When she drew back her cowl, her face was an echo of one I thought I would never see again," Thranduil said, and in the spray of mist that drew rainbows before the vista of the gardens, Elrond saw the ageless face, the gentle beauty and the tireless wisdom that had been Queen Celyndailiel, as if a vision out of time - though whether a herald of the future, or an echo of the past, he could not yet tell.

"And yet," he said to Thranduil, "you hesitate to speak her name; to allow yourself to believe that what you saw could be the fulfilment of the promise she made to you? Such a return is not without precedent."

He made the challenge lightly, though he respected Thranduil's caution. In such an age as the one in which they found themselves, with Shadow rising on all sides, it did little harm to err on the side of caution.

He turned back to face the king just as Thranduil looked up at him.  Their eyes clashed – the icy, winter blue, and deep midnight meeting like the storm that aeons passed had existed between their two heritages, but age and wisdom, and many shared troubles had dissolved ancient enmities, and after a time, Elrond saw Thranduil nod almost imperceptibly.

With a soft sigh, he said, "The name I could not speak is all that my heart has desired for millennia.  I dare not trust my judgement entirely, for I fear I will see what is not there."

Elrond nodded, and moved to sit, as he considered Thranduil's words carefully, feeling the weight of emotion behind them, and moreover, considered his own, next words carefully. Thranduil had obviously come to him seeking advice; seeking what comfort that Elrond could give to him, and if he could help it, he did not intend to deny the king that which he needed.

That did not mean, however, that he should avoid the utterance of words and thoughts that might be difficult, perhaps even painful, both in the speaking and the hearing of them.

He sipped momentarily at his own goblet of wine, and spent a long moment in contemplation of Thranduil's soft frown and his own thoughts, before he spoke again.

"Whether she is, or is not, your beloved Celyndailiel returned to you," he said softly, and his use of her name was quite deliberate, "the time you have ahead of you is one that could test your patience and endurance.  I assume that your journey here was not prompted only by the likeness you saw in her face, and her naming of you as Ice and Starlight? Were there... other things that led you to the conclusion that she might be so?"

He set down his goblet then, and steepled his hands before his face, as if in contemplation, drawing to his mind the quiet he needed to allow his inner vision to awake.

"Your assumptions are just," Thranduil said, and his voice became both soft and rougher with emotion. "The way she speaks, the words she uses, the very way she moves... and when she is near, I can sense her mind, as if in the distance, or behind a veil.  So very close and yet..."

Elrond listened to Thranduil's answer and the tone of his voice, and reached out to gain the sense of all he could feel from the king.  Beyond the uncertainty, beneath the weariness that was belied in the seemingly unshakable poise Thranduil always displayed, in the silence between the words that the Elvenking said, and did not say, the Lord of Imladris felt the unmistakable tug of mingled fear, and hope… of need.

"I know her so well, Elrond, and it has been too long since I felt the meeting of our Spirits," Thranduil said with a sigh, and shook his head.  "I know you understand that."

"It waxes and it wanes, Thranduil," Elrond said softly, speaking to his own connection with his distant and absent, beloved Celebrian, as Thranduil had.  "Like the moon."

Thranduil sighed again, and closed his eyes as if to focus his own thought.  Then barely audible, asked with a doubt in his voice that Elrond had not heard in him since before dawning of the Age.

"Can there be such a fell magic or illusion as can fool even the deepest senses of those of us who love beyond all reason?"

"Take heart, my Lord King," Elrond said slowly, and from deep within, sensing all he could from Thranduil, "for other than what lingers in the South of your once fair realm, I feel not the sting of Shadow around your heart," but then he took a breath, and equally as solemnly added, "Yet… ever has the Enemy dogged our steps and haunted the peace in which we would encompass Middle Earth.  You know that as well as I, Thranduil, for you were _there_ when even Celebrimbor was all but fooled."

"And had it not then been for Celyn-dailiel…"

Elrond did not miss the difficulty with which Thranduil spoke her name, the catch in his voice unmistakable and allowing the weight of sight to fall away he reached out to put a hand onto the king's arm.

"Rest, Mellon," he said. "This riddle will not solve itself with one short conversation.  I have a suite of room prepared for you.  Give me time to consult the gathered Lore of Imladris' many tomes, and we shall speak again, at length and well into the night, if needs be."

He looked up, as did Thranduil, when Lindir, as though he had been summoned, appeared in the study's doorway.

"You are right," Thranduil answered Elrond, with the twitch of a smile at his firm lips. "And at dinner, perhaps, I can trouble you with another Matter of State."

Elrond groaned, good natured, knowing full well of what the king spoke.  He had touched upon its subject after all.

"My hands are tied, Thranduil," he said, "You know this."

"Istan, hir nín," he answered, "And I would have you find a way to _un_ tie them."

Elrond chuckled, and standing as Thranduil did, he clasped the king gently on the shoulder, promising softly, "Were it within my power, you would already have that which you desire.  Go now with Lindir.  He will show you to your accommodations.

"Until dinner, then, my friend," Thranduil bowed his head as he took his leave of Elrond

"Indeed," Elrond answered, "And I shall bide my time until then in discovery of all that I may."

As Thranduil, moved to follow Lindir, Elrond left the study behind them, descending to the library, to begin his search.  He knew exactly where he would begin, with a tale… a _history_ that was told to every Elf while still in the cradle – one that transcended death itself: Trenarn o Lúthien Tinúviel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hanon le – thank you
> 
> Mae govannen an Imladris – welcome to Rivendell
> 
> Heleg ad gwilith – ice and starlight
> 
> Istan, hir nín – Yes, my lord (Literally 'I know' my lord, because the previous sentence Elrond had said 'you know this')
> 
> Trenarn o Lúthien Tinúviel – account of Lúthien Tinúviel
> 
> The quotation at the head of the chapter is the Sindarin translation of the question Thranduil puts to Elrond in fear that there could be fell magic that could fool even those that love beyond all reason – sometimes you have to get really creative with languages… English included.


	9. Man Gernin Agor Athrahan?

First Age of Middle Earth – 537

 

_I Valar u-annar rûth na le an melch, dan le belch ad úgerth. Le minui dagant nothrim!_

 

The melody of the ocean caressed his ears. The breath of the wind through the silk of his hair soothed the tumult that raged more fiercely within his heart than the waves that broke against the rocks of the bay below the cliffs on which he stood. The cry of gulls overhead voiced the quiet anguish that he remained unable to express.

Thranduil drew in a deep breath of the salt air, and let it out as a long, slow sigh.  So much loss… so much strife.

"I thought I might find you here."

He turned his head to watch as Gil-galad crested the rise, then when the king drew close enough turned and offered a bow.

"My Lord," he greeted the High King.

"Get up, Thranduil," Gil-galad said softly, if with a touch of exasperation in his voice.  "You need not take on airs and graces, we are far too near in age for that, especially when we are alone."

Thranduil straightened, turning his head again out to sea as the king stepped up to his side.  Both gazed westward, and both of them, almost as one, reached to secure portions of their long hair, the one shining white-blonde the other a darker golden hue, that was teased by the stiff breezes atop the cliff.

"Let us leave obeisance to those strutting peacocks below who are old enough to know better, hmm?" Gil-galad offered with a smile.

Thranduil's lips twitched in his own smile at this, and turning again toward the king said, "Those 'strutting peacocks' are your subjects and advisors, my lord king."

"Exactly," Gil-galad said, with a much aggrieved expression on his face, "And you've more wisdom in your little finger than all of them combined."

Thranduil let out a long, slow sigh. He doubted the truth of that even though, not yet into his second century, he felt as though he carried the weight of mountains upon his youthful shoulders.

"Mana suriëlye?"

Thranduil shook his head.

"Aniron hîdh, Gil-galad," Thranduil answered, though understanding the other Elf, his conditioned raising allowed him not to respond in kind, "dan…"

He trailed off, taking a long breath as he turned his face back out to face the west, and the sound of the rolling waves.

"You fear it will be long in coming," Gil-galad voiced what Thranduil could not bring himself to say, lest in the speaking of it, he conjured it somehow into being.

He nodded, his eyes still closed.

"I fear my mother may have been right," he confessed then. "And that if I could somehow have avoided battled in Doriath I would be spared that which is to come – for come it will.  It is only a matter of time."

"If you had not fought in Doriath, mellon nîn, you would now be among those that dwell in the Halls of Mandos."

"As is my mother," Thranduil sighed, and ran a tired hand across his forehead.

"Forgive me." He felt Gil-galad's hand grip his shoulder as the High King's words reached his ears. "I spoke without thought."

Again he shook his head.

"What is to forgive when it is the truth?" he asked, then opening his eyes and turning to Gil-galad he continued, "When even here, after so many years, peace is uneasy at best. What will it be when they catch up to us once more?"

Gil-galad's face grew grave, and Thranduil felt his stomach tighten in fear, turning fully to cast his eyes down to the settlement, half expecting to see a ruin of fire and wrath ringed around the peaceful vista.

"Your lord father has returned," Gil-galad finally divulged the reason for his coming to find him, "He has called a council.  He has news, and I need your level headed wisdom there for all that he outranks you."

"You cannot pit me against my father," Thranduil told him bluntly, familial loyalty holding strong, in spite of his own reservations, his own needs.

Gil-galad shook his head.

"All I ask is that you speak your mind, Thranduil," he said, "As you did when first we came from Gondolin; Noldrorin refugees among Sindarin survivors of the Second Kinslaying.  If we are to survive a third, if we are to have a hope of holding against the forces of Morgoth, should _they_ come upon us, then we _need_ to stand united – one kin: Edhelrim, not Gódhellim or Eluwaith."

Thranduil sighed.

"And you believe they will listen to me?" he asked, his doubt clear in the tone of his voice. "Those _strutting peacocks_ ; my father?"

Gil-galad shrugged, and then favoured Thranduil with one of his rare, lopsided smiles.

"We stand more of a chance of them listening to the both of us, than one voice alone," he said.  "Even if that voice _is_ mine."

** ** **

 

Thranduil sat, alert and uncomfortable at his father's side as the voices of the families' elders, raised in argument, all striving to be heard, filled the overcrowded council hall. Few, who could be counted on the fingers of one hand, remained quiet – listening, weighing the pieces of argument that could be more clearly heard than others.

His father was among them.

Thranduil could tell from the schooled expression on Oropher's face, the way he moved only his eyes among the gathered throng that this was his father's intent – he knew the signs and he waited; himself listening.

"We cannot trust our defence to the kin of…" "Where were Thingol's people when…?" "How do we know they won't…?" "There are none that can stand against…" "Those who _take_ what they want can only…"

On and ever darker the comments and accusations, until Thranduil found himself becoming almost breathless with hurt – a hurt he could not quite understand.  He had lived through the same prejudices, the same events, the same history – how then could it be that _he_ could more than see, could _feel_ the necessity to set the past aside.

He lifted his gaze, and across the gathering locked his troubled eyes with those of Gil-galad.  Was it their relative youth that allowed them to put aside, if not comfortably, the troubles of the past to recognise the needs of the present?

"My Lords…"

His father's voice, though barely raised, cut across the rising din to draw the hall back to a discontented murmur, the way a rider might rein in a horse.

"My Lords," he repeated, supressing even that uncomfortable hum, "Dissention, while understandable, does not address the very real and current threat that stands _beyond_ our issue with the Kinslayers."

Thranduil cringed at his father's decision to uphold the hurts of the past with his choice of words and for a moment he closed his eyes, before looking down at his hands, feeling almost as if it were – again – his responsibility to take up the briefly worn mantle of authority he had assumed at the falling away of the rage he had felt toward Maedhros when they last met.

For a moment the image rebuilt itself in his mind.  Dior the Fair, slain and staring, his hand outstretched as if in appeal to the gentle Nimloth, who had been wife and queen to the King of Doriath.  Innocent he had named her then, but sitting there in the council of vicious and bitter elders, he found himself asking, were _any_ of them truly so?

"As we sit in debate," his father continued, "the gathering hordes of Morgoth begin a march that _will_ bring them to our door.  Perhaps not in the coming season, perhaps not even for the passing of a coranar, but come they will."

"Yet it is not the advance of Morgoth we are here to _debate_."

An Elf that Thranduil recognised – more for the appearance of his kinsman, for they were of a likeness, this Elf and his brother, Galathil – rose to his feet to stand opposite to Oropher.  It was Celeborn, who, though a prince of Doriath, had bound himself in love to the White Lady, a Noldor of the house of Finarfin.  His lady wife was among those few to whom Thingol had offered welcome in Doriath for their close kinship with his brother, Olwë.  Celeborn and Galadriel had come and gone often, dwelling not in Doriath, but with kin to the White Lady, and though she herself had great friendship with Melian, it seemed to Thranduil that Celeborn found issue in some ways of Thingol's governance that made it easier for him to remain with his wife in estrangement of his own kinsmen.

Thranduil could not help but think it telling that the Lady herself remained absent from the council.

"My Lord Celeborn," Oropher acknowledged the other Elf, though Thranduil detected, in his father's voice, a note – though well hidden – of a harsher opinion yet.

"Oropher, you brought word to us here," Celeborn went on without preamble, "that the Sons of Fëanor have learned of Elwing's possession of the jewel.  Morgoth… is of no concern here in this hall at this time."

"Of no concern?" His father, too, rose to his feet and turned to face the Elf prince.

Thranduil felt Gil-galad's gaze fall upon him, and knew that when he looked up, he would see the light of hope and expectation in the other Elf's eyes.  Instead he sighed deeply and closed his eyes again.  Why he?  What could _he_ say that would change the tide of all these bitterly dissenting voices?  What did the High King see in him that put such faith – misguided to Thranduil's eyes – in him?

"Even were the entire host of the Eldar, here in the East and from the Blessed Land to unite, and fight under a single banner, we have not the power to defeat Morgoth.  We must – _must_ – concentrate our sights upon those foe against which we can prevail." Celeborn said.

"Are those _your_ words, my Lord, or those of your—"

"It matters not," Celeborn interrupted, his voice clipped with an irritation that was barely contained. "For my wife and I are of an accord in this."  He turned his angry gaze from Oropher and looked out in appeal of support over the other lords and heads of family gathered in the room.  "We, here, have a duty of care to protect our people, our families, from those very foe that we have been warned know of the Jewel that has, and will again, bring them against us."

"Us?" Oropher challenged softly, and likely, Thranduil surmised, in ire.

"Yes, _us_." Celeborn snapped, spinning back to face Oropher.  "I have already keenly felt the loss of my kinsman's son and grandsons, I _will not_ let my great-kinswoman suffer the same fate!"

"Then perhaps," Oropher returned, deathly calm though Thranduil fancied he could feel his father's frustration and fear which fuelled the otherwise uncharacteristic public challenge, "your wife's family will—"

It bordered on insult, and the fact was not missed as others in the hall once more abandoned restraint and returned to their unfettered bickering. Thranduil recalled the bitter sight of his dying mother held in his father's arms in Menegroth's great hall and he could stand the squabbling no more.

He stood, a breath away from avoiding his father's restraining grasp that fell impotent against his wrist, and crossed the chamber toward the door even as Gil-galad's strong, commanding voice rang out, a bell-like peal that brought the hall to silence.  He did not stop even then, until a yet more unyielding tone from the king called out his name.

"Thranduil," Gil-galad's voice, though, was warm beneath the harshness of his words. "I did not give you leave to depart these proceedings.  I bid you attend because I required your counsel, I require it still."

Cornered, however, Thranduil did not appreciate that warmth, and turned to face the many gazes that were cast his way.

"To what end? They will not listen." he said, the words in voice of his own fears and frustrations fell from his lips with matching bitterness in his gaze if not his tone, and to the assembled Lords he addressed the pain in his heart. "Can you not hear yourselves? You were, all of you, there in Doriath, or in Gondolin, when the acts of kin against kin through jealousy and greed brought the awakening of shadow in _all_ our hearts and sowed death among us like spores; seed of ignorance that we have allowed to fester and grow to be a part of our world."

He stepped slowly forward as he spoke, looking into the faces of friends, and of those who were strangers to him alike, walking almost full circle as he spoke to bring himself back to his place nearby the door.

"Prince Celeborn is right," he said, and the Elven lord raised as hand as though to stop him, but he went on anyway, "We must first stand – united – against this most immediate threat, and only in defence, for so too my father speaks the truth, and we must stand ready to face the threat of Morgoth.  We in the Haven of Sirion stand as the last bastion of safety against his hordes, and whether we have the strength to hold or not, war is coming. We must face it and remain free, even unto death, or fall to the poison of the Great Enemy's ceaseless malice that was cast upon the world ere it was yet realised in the music that has grown faint to our ears."

Silence weighed heavy for a time, pregnant with sorrow and shame, before a light, clear voice spoke, for but a moment, awakening the music he had named as lost within their souls.

"He speaks well, and wisely."

Elwing's soft footsteps approached from the doorway behind him, and he felt the touch of her hand in the small of his back as she came to a halt beside him, and turned his head, dipping it slightly in recognition and respect.

"But it is moot," she went on, "For if those who took and murdered my brothers come here, then you will fight – all of you…" her hand tightened on Thranduil's back, and subtly, he moved closer, feeling her fear, and in the absence of her husband he would protect his dear friend who had shared with him so much loss. "…no matter the cost."

** ** **

_'…No matter the cost…'_

_The words echo in his head between each beat – the hammering of his heart – almost as slow as the rage the surf pounds against the base of the cliff._

_"Elwing, meldis, manen toll hen?" The words rasp through his constricted throat, the leather about it tightens as the strength of his arm and shoulder struggle yet more to keep him suspended, and he laments._

_'…Who is left to tell Eärendil when he returns?'_

The Havens of Sirion lay in ruins around him and he stood, almost shoulder to shoulder with Galathil, pushing back against an oncoming wall of warriors loyal to the brothers Fëanor – graceless brutes that lay waste to all against which they came. Already, encircling fires burned and the stench of burning flesh, and running blood overwhelmed even the salty freshness of the ocean.

Barely a year had passed since his father had brought word that the sons of Fëanor knew that Elwing had the Silmaril, and this time around there was no warning, no parlay – peaceful or of demand – the day simply dawned red with the blood of Gil-galad's outriders, and smoke and ash from the burning of the wolds muddied that sanguine dawn beyond any hope of redemption.

"Thranduil," Galathil's urgent and exhausted voice reached him through the clash of fine Elven steel against the baser blades of his foe, and Thranduil risked a glance in his direction, drawn apart from the other elf as they moved in the battle.  "We two alone cannot hold them."

He shook his head, pain and anger mingling in his countenance as he ran his blade through the leather armour of the man before him. Two alone… they could _not_ be all that remained of his kin, the Elves of Sirion – they surely must have been able to stand, after all through which they had survived.  Surely this would not be their end.

"We must give them time," he said, speaking of Elwing and her household, pulling his sword free before the remaining foe overwhelmed him. He felt the sting of heat beneath his pauldron as if in warning not to underestimate the strength of those that stood as his enemy and engaged in battle with this new foe.

_…No matter the cost…_

He hissed to banish the pain of the human warrior's strike against him, and spinning through almost a full circle, he cleaved the offender's head cleanly from his shoulders, kicking away the corpse as it fell, still twitching, beside him.

"There _is_ no more time," Galathil warned, gesturing toward the headland, where Elwing had gone. Thranduil turned his head to look, and his heart and stomach both lurched as he saw the group of Elves and men who even now, climbed the slope in pursuit of his friends and kinsmen. "We cannot hold them _here_ and give aid where she will need us most!"

If they reached the headland before Elwing could lead her sons and what was left of her household from the bluff and to safety, they would be trapped, and no doubt slaughtered where they stood.  Galathil was right, they were out of time and he had no remaining options.

As if his desperate thoughts had conjured them, a small group of Gil-galad's warriors burst from the burning woodland nearby, bloodied blades drawn and raised, and recognising allies in Thranduil and Galathil, they sped toward them.

"Ereinion reviar o forven.  I adar lin nôr rhuven," one of the Elves called as they joined the fray. "Man sâd i riel?"

"Or sí," Thranduil called back as another of the gathered foe struck out against him and he met the attack.

"He boe bronio," the king's guard said with such urgent compulsion that every nerve in Thranduil's body, though he was already in accord with the command, wrought greater torment through the whole of him. "Geritham huin. Gwao! Berio sen!"

Uttering curses, fighting his way free, Thranduil swept away from the from the remaining human warriors, his place in the battle taken by the warriors of the king's guard and by way of the narrow path he often took himself, headed for the open headland atop the cliff and Galathil at his heels.

_'…thar abdollen…'_

_Breathless… his lungs burn in want of air and his vision of the lowering sun wavers as if in greater heat than the dimming of the bitter day affords._

_"Goheno nin. Man gernin agor athrahan?" He reaches up to slip the fingers of his left hand, slick with the blood that trails along his inner arm, beneath the leather that coils around his neck, a serpentine noose._

_'…Uideritha han?'_

The corpses of maid and steward alike littered the clifftop as he crested the path, and he fought despair – the first of his foes – as he set his terrified gaze to the small knot of stalwart defenders, cornered against the rocky promontory's westernmost tip.  He did not pause. He did not think of his own safety, simply increased his pace, already labouring in fatigue, to drive into the side of the closest attacker, sparing nothing as he took him down.

"To me!" he ordered, already turning to put himself between the oncoming wall of wheeling blades and those trapped against the cliff's edge, where hopelessness had sewn seeds of disorganisation among those left alive to defend their royal lady. "Push back… we must push them back."

If he did not give the family room to find their way to freedom, then no matter how heroic their stand, it would all have been for nothing, and to reach the path away from the headland they _must_ move away from the edge.

A slender form, dark of hair moved at his side, raised the fine blade he wielded, and growled; an adolescent bear among Elves otherwise seasoned, not to battle, but to peace and study.  It took him several moments to realise who it was, and then a further moment to both angle his own primary blade to catch the enemy's descending strike.  He shifted his offhand weapon so that he could safely reach to push the youth back, as another defender took the immediate danger of battle away from them and the few remaining guards of the household all but formed a wall between their lady and the forward push of their foe.

"Elros, go to your mother," he ordered harshly, and then to soften the blow added, "Stand at her side, in _her_ defence, not in mine."

The twin was not fooled, not for one moment.

"I know how to fight, Thranduil," he insisted.

"Besides," a softer voice at his other side drew his gaze away from the fiery-eyed child, into the midnight gaze of the Princess of Doriath. "Where would he stand, when _you_ are at my side?"

For a moment he considered ordering her away, but the cold determination he saw in her face, frightening to realise, told him more than ever that he would be speaking without hope of being heard.  His quick mind sought another way, and shifting both long blades to his off-hand for a moment, he reached for the short knife at his waist and pressed the hilt of it into one of Elwing's hands, and tucked the other of her hands into the side of his belt, just behind his scabbard.

"Then stay at my side," he instructed, both his expression and tone meant to tell her not to give argument to his words, "and keep your sons close, for the moment they break we make for the coomb path down.  By Ereinion's word and by the conscience of my heart, I must get you to safety."

She nodded once, and he saw she understood, then he turned back to the narrow wall of the household guard, watching for the break, looking for the gap that _he_ could fill, but which would force her to remain behind him until they were ready to make their assay – safe from the threat of warriors more experienced than she.

There are moments when fate denies the wishes of one's heart and sets one's feet upon another path than the one intended; when no matter how fervently an attempt is made to avoid a certain end, that end will come nonetheless. He would forever afterward wonder if this were such a time; if Elwing was destined to leave Middle Earth that day, never to be seen again upon its shores and within its woodlands – whether by the hand of Fëanor's sons, or by her own –  or perhaps by some flaw or failure in himself that such would come to pass. Yet, even as he rejoined the battle, finding such a place as he had wanted, where he could fight to uphold the defensive line _and_ keep Elwing from the mounting assault, such a moment came upon them and a part of him recognised the doom that was upon them all.

One by one, the defenders fell, succumbed to hack and thrust of cold steel; voices once raised in laughter and in song forever silenced, and others set to sound only in grief and loss, but in their sacrifice, little by little, step by step, Thranduil drew Elwing and her sons ever closer to the promise of freedom – of an escape, eastward to rendezvous with his father, or with those that had, early on, broken through the gathering twilight into the brief day beyond. He did not think to hope for the timely arrival of the king.  Such hope faded with each passing moment.

A flash of red to the left caught his eye and, barely in time, he turned and in the same motion pushed hard with out-thrown arm against young Elros' chest, and in a corkscrew movement pulled Elwing until she was directly at his back.

Unbalanced, Elros fell, and Elrond dropped to his twin's side a hand pressed against his brother's chest to keep him down.  Elwing jostled against Thranduil's back, and the incoming arrow splintered the already damaged metal of his pauldron, the tip embedded, but shallow, within the flesh of his shoulder beneath.

There was no time to voice the sharp shock of it, nor to do other than reach across and snap the already weakened shaft as he sidestepped to put himself between the boys and the dozen or so newcomers who crested the path to the headland in that moment.

"You must make your break," he hissed half across his shoulder, "Elrond, Elros, take your mother and—"

"Thranduil…!" Elwing's soft, trembling exclamation stopped his words, and facing front once more, he saw the line of the enemy, all arrayed before them, bows draw; their end at hand.

"Wait!"

The single word of command came from over to his left, where before he had spied the flash of red, and as the band of Elves, under the command of the surviving sons of Fëanor obeyed the call to hold their aim but release no shot, he turned his head enough to see a familiar, detested figure step forward from among the warriors of the Cursed Noldor.

"Oropherion, unless I miss my guess," Maedhros called across the short distance as, slowly, ever imperceptible Thranduil began to inch Elwing backward, and following his lead, Elrond drew his bother to his feet and moved in closer beside his mother. "We have crossed swords once before, you and I."

"I remember," Thranduil answered, guiding the others back another step as he watched the equally slow retreat of the few defenders, and for the first time noticed Galathil among them.

"You spared my life then," Maedhros said, stepping forward from the line of archers, though Thranduil could see he was careful to keep from between them. "I never was sure why… given the way I knew you felt; all that had been done, but… a life is a life, and since I failed to do as you had set as my condition I believe a debt stands between us – unpaid."

"Then let them go," Thranduil said, knowing at once by the cold smile that appeared on Maedhros's face that no such agreement would be made that day.  The Noldor Elder brother confirmed his fear a moment later.

"Only get her to give up what is ours and we will leave this place," Maglor said stepping forward to his brother's side.  "End this curse upon us all.  You have that power."

Thranduil felt Elwing's hand tighten at his back, and knew what she would say, and knew without a shadow of doubt that no one in Middle Earth had that power, save the Sons themselves, and perhaps not even then.  He shook his head.

"It will never be ended," he said, "It _can_ never be, for it seems it is within our nature to covet – be it beauty, or knowledge – both.  It is all the same.  We will never be free of it, for I believe it has been sung into our very being."

"And yet the Valar would still punish us for it?" Maedhros spat, as his brother came to a halt at his side.

The two began, slowly, to push forward, and though some of their bondsmen lowered their bows and advanced along with them, enough remained with arrows knocked that the hope of escape was dashed before it began.

"The Valar punish _you,_ though not for your covetousness," Elwing spoke up, as she slipped her hand from Thranduil's belt and gathered both her sons to her. "But for your cruelty and shame.  You it was that first slay Kin!"

"Ah, she speaks, the princess of Doriath, Elwing the white," Maedhros gave a mocking half bow, before he took another step forward.  "The Silmaril… _my lady,_ and all this can be ended."

She took another step back, releasing her sons, and Thranduil retreated with her, and across the short distance between them caught Galathil's eye, reading the same thought in his kinsman's face.  They had to act.  They were trapped, and there was but one course left to them, one that would likely bring their end.

He flexed his fingers around the hilt of his offhand blade, the ache in his shoulder blossomed into true pain, a pain that he bit down upon and then looked with appeal toward the brothers of the House of Fëanor.

"Maedhros, Maglor, you _know_ she speaks the truth," he said. "This will end but badly if you do not heed—"

The brothers took another step closer, hands tight about the hilts of their blades and both Thranduil and Galathil raised their own.

"Surrender the Silmaril, Elwing, or we will have no choice but to take it by—"

"Ynen, Uimelathon lle."

Elwing's quietly spoken words sent a chill through Thranduil's blood, one that had him turn in time to witness, with a horror dawning brighter than the first sunrise, as she took one last step back before turning and almost without pause, without that he had even the time to cry her name, she stepped into the open air as if trusting the sound of the open surf below alone to hold her aloft.

"Naneth!"

Elrond's cry released his inertia, and as the youth lunged toward Elwing, as she began to fall, Thranduil caught Elrond around the waist and pulled the struggling youth bodily away from the edge of the cliff as his twin brother, with a wordless cry of utter desolation, sank to his knees.

"Elrond, Lau!" Thranduil cried, fighting with the boy as he sought to follow his mother. "U-gerich anno edraith sen!  U-geri—"

From the ocean below a percussive roar of sound and light blossomed, shaking the ground. It rendered the very air around him hostile, taking his feet from under him as heat and light rolled over the headland, and he lost his hold on Elrond, seeing him flung far from the edge of the cliff by the blast, closer to the enemy, though they too had fallen.

His lungs burned with the effort of drawing breath in the wake of what could only been a burst of magic of the deepest kind, he fought to move but found himself paralysed.  His eyes blurred as he forced them open, but as he did, the sight of a sea bird, rising to the paling sky – great white wings spread against the buffeting winds, so bright they were almost silver with a glow of benediction.

The bird wheeled overhead a full turn, before tipping its wings and heading to the west.

"Eru!" Thranduil gasped, trying again but failing to rise. He rolled to his side, breathless and winded, the pain in his injured shoulder far more noticeable now.

Every sense of danger peaked in him as the world sharpened into focus once more, and he forced his knees beneath him, rising unsteadily and lifting his head to see Maedhros and Maglor already on their feet, the dark haired Fëanor brother held the limp figure of Elrond beneath one arm, calling for retreat, two of his thralls reaching for the equally insensate Elros from the ground nearby.

Thranduil turned his head as his trembling legs gave beneath him, and he stumbled back to his knees, and saw Galathil already arisen, though the other Elf stood unfocussed.

"Galathil," he called in warning, his own strength returning, but too slowly, "They have the boys… take them down!  Dago huin!"

Even as he made the call to his kinsman for rescue for the twins, Maedhros – red hair flying in the air like a blood soaked banner – crossed the almost visibly trembling space between them, and without mercy, buried his sword in Galathil's belly, twisting the steel upward with the cruel thrust, to still the beating of his heart.

A surge of hurt and anger deep within him cleared the fog and freed Thranduil from the lingering after effects of the magic that had burst over them, as he watched Galathil's expression change from one of confusion, to momentary pain, then slacken as he began to fall.  Maedhros pushed him away as his body toppled, and crying out, wordless, in expression of the sheer emotional agony that possessed him at all that had come to pass, Thranduil charged at the eldest of House Fëanor, all hope of finesse abandoned to his rage, meaning to take Maedhros from his feet.

Maedhros empty fist came up, away from the still falling Galathil, and caught Thranduil's leading side, half spinning him, only then to close his mailed fingers around the arrow-wounded shoulder that Thranduil had, in his charge, protected.

New pain blinded him, but spurred to act he fought, and fought hard, bringing both hands up against Maedhros's wrist, seeking to deaden the nerve, loosen the hold.

"They're but _children_!" he snarled, as he stumbled back, freed from Maedhros' grasp, but before he could regain his balance Maedhros kicked out, his foot connecting hard with Thranduil's knee.  It buckled beneath him.

"And they are as lost to you, to your kin, as the Silmarils to _us_!" Maedhros growled, and uncoiled a long leather war-whip from his belt.

Struggling to his feet, despite the weakness of his knee, Thranduil snatched up the nearest blade, meaning to strike at Maedhros; meaning to show him how wrong he was – to protect the children.

A sharp crack split the air, like lightning in a summer storm and heat, as though the storm's power had gone through him, burned around Thranduil's throat. He felt himself pulled forward before he realised what had happened, that Maedhros' whip had coiled, serpent like – and it occurred to him in that moment that it was the perfect weapon for one as lost to shadow as Maedhros, and beyond even the belief of his own heart, the acceptance that this Elf was beyond redemption was as painful as the hurts of his body.

There was no time to indulge such despair, and as he pitched toward the red-headed Noldor, Maedhros, flicked his wrist and wound another loop of leather around Thranduil's throat and swept his feet from under him and if the fall had not knocked the breath from his lungs, the kick that followed would have.  Stunned and unable to stop himself he felt himself he roll toward the cliff edge, closer and ever closer.

"Join her, since you were so desperate to protect her," Maedhros continued his snarling diatribe, "to uphold her misplaced right to the Sacred Jewel for which my family gave _everything_ …"

"…brought… upon yourselves!" Thranduil gasped, clawing at his neck in an effort untangle the leather from around his throat, but Maedhros only pulled it tighter.

"No relief from estrangement from our home," another kick, "the music of the sea," and again, "the light of the stars… beyond us now we—"

"Maedhros!" Maglor's voice interrupted his brother's words and actions, "Lau! I ven u-na hen.  He is right…"

The pressure at Thranduil's neck slackened, the pain transferred to his scalp as Maedhros released the whip and halted his roll toward the edge by grabbing a handful of his battle braided hair.

"…He is right," Maglor repeated, "We brought this on ourselves with our oath, our curse, and as you have said, to this one you owe your life."

Thranduil made another assay for freedom, heedless of the danger of the void so close to where Maedhros held him, heedless of the added pain his struggles wrought, and gasping, near to desperation once more demanded the release of Elwing's children.

"They were not…" he rasped, clawing ineffectually at Maedhros hand as he made his appeal, "…even born… when all of this began.  Let them go.  Show them mercy!"

"They are beyond you now," Maedhros hissed in his ear, "but this oath I shall make to _you_ , Thranduil Oropherion of Thingol's House: if you should survive this day, and we should meet again, with no debt between us of a life for a life, then I _will_ end yours."

As he spoke, the Fëanorian wedged the handle of the whip into a narrow crack in the rocky edge of the headland, and realising his mortal peril at last, Thranduil's struggles redoubled as Maedhros brought him to the crumbling lip of the land, with naught but air and the sound of pounding surf between him and the rocks beneath.

And then he let him go.

The sensation of the fall turned Thranduil's stomach inside out as it rose inside of him, his heart all but ceasing to beat at the seeming weightlessness of it, yet his mind maintained presence enough to grasp at the leather and wind his arm around it so that when it reached the extent of its play and the earth's crack caught him up, suspended, it was his arm and shoulder that bore the brunt of his weight, cutting into the flesh of his hand, jarring against his shoulder, before the leather drew tighter yet around his already constricted throat, and there he hung, swinging in the buffeting breath of Ulmo's wrath at the headland's tip.

' _No matter the cost_ ,' he thought bitterly, and the words echoed in his head between each hammering beat of his heart that kept slow time with the rage of the sea at the base of the cliff beneath him.

"Elwing, meldis, manen toll hen?" The words, forced through his constricted throat were snatched away on the wind and the leather about his neck tightened still further as the strength of his arm and shoulder began to fail.

' _Who is left to tell Eärendil when he returns?_ '

In his mind he replayed the fall of each of his kinsmen, Galathil last of all – falling ever backwards onto the green headland, the cruel thrust of Maedhros blade biting at his heart.

' _Thar abdollen_ '

Breathless… his lungs burned in want of air and his vision of the lowering sun wavered as if in greater heat than the dimming of the bitter day afforded.

"Goheno nin. Man gernin agor athrahan?" He reached up to slip the fingers of his left hand, slick with the blood that ran along his inner arm, beneath the leather that coiled around his neck, a serpentine noose.

' _Uideritha han?_ '

And the words of a softer voice, a melody, slipped into his mind with the softness of a feather, the lightness of a farewell kiss:

_'…Watch for the hand of the Valar… Watch for the hand of the Valar… Watch for the hand of the Valar…'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mana suriëlye – (Quenya) What do you seek?
> 
> Aniron hîdh – I need peace (Lit: I desire peace)
> 
> Dan – but
> 
> Edhelrim – Elves
> 
> Gódhellim – Noldorin elves
> 
> Eluwaith – Sindarin elves (of Doriath, Thingol's subjects)
> 
> Coranar – solar year
> 
> Meldis, manen toll hen? – My friend, how did it come to this?
> 
> Ereinion reviar o forven. I adar lin nôr rhuven – Ereinion (Gil-galad) sails from the north. Your father rides east
> 
> Man sâd i riel? – Where is the princess?
> 
> Or sí – above
> 
> He boe bronio – she must survive
> 
> Geritham huin. Gwao! Berio sen – We will hold them. Go! Protect her
> 
> thar abdollen – too late
> 
> Goheno nin – forgive me
> 
> Man gernin agor athrahan? – What more could I do? [lit: What could I do beyond it (i.e. that which I did)]
> 
> Uideritha han? – When will it end? [Lit: Ever will it end?]
> 
> Ynen, Uimelathon lle – my sons, I will always love you.
> 
> Naneth! – Mother!
> 
> Dago huin! – kill them!
> 
> Lau! I ven u-na hen – No! This is not the way.
> 
> The quotation at the head of the chapter represents Elwing's castigation of House Fëanor – the words she speaks to Maedhros as he mocks her. _The Valar do not punish you for your greed, but because you are cruel and for your ill deeds. You are the first kin slayers!_ (More or less anyway).


	10. Ely Dûr

Third Age of Middle Earth – 2840

 

_Tirio an i gam Valion_

 

Thranduil lounged, half reclined on the deeply padded chaise on the terrace of the apartments in Rivendell that had been made his.  Not far to his side, the soft spray from one of the many waterfalls cast rainbows, like teardrops, into the late afternoon and the bubbling water that tumbled to the basin of the pool at the terrace's side sang sweetly to ears far distant in the restorative dreaming of his Elven reverie.

Lost in memory was his mind, his sight lingering in the beauty of the time between the present and his thoughts – thoughts of a gentler day, a long ago garden and the hand of the one with whom he shared it held in his own.

It had been an age… longer than an age since he had heard her sweet voice, felt the softness of her hands soothing the troubles of past, mitigating the violence and the pain, a beacon of light against the gathering Shadow.

_...watch for the hand of the Valar…_

A long, slow blink awakened him and with feline grace he unfolded from his resting posture to come to his feet, and stalked across to the railing that bordered the terrace.  Running his fingertips against the carved leaves and floral motifs, he leaned upon the stone, looking deeper into the gardens of Rivendell.

They had walked there once, he and Celyndailiel together, and the memory of it – and the answering echo of the memory of walking in the gardens of Lindon with her hand upon his arm – brought the softness of a smile to his lips despite the troubles that stirred amid the recollections of his mind.

Pushing away from the terrace railing he made for the short stair down into the gardens, slowing his pace once his boots trod the softness of green grass, following the meandering pathways toward the bubbling song of water that drew him; called to him.

_…the hand of the Valar…_

The grass softened with sweet scented mosses that released their gentle fragrance as he stepped closer to the bottom of the narrow waterfall, cooler there, where the slanted reach of the late summer sunlight did not so easily reach.  Both the perfume and the cooler humidity were welcome, a balm to waken the senses to delight in the sparkle and play of the tumbling water.

As a whisper, the movement of leaves to his right drew his eye away, he turned to see a trio of Elven ladies approaching the dell from another pathway through closely planted bushes and trees.  He ceased his approach, and the forward most maiden pulled up short, took a moment seemingly to remember herself, and then gracefully swept in to a deep, respectful curtsey.  Those others behind took cue from her and followed with their own.

"My Lord King," she said softly, "My father said that you had come to Imladris."

"Lady Arwen," Thranduil answered, for by her greeting, so did he know her, and reaching out he gently lifted her chin on the side of his hand, and by so doing signalled her to rise.  As she did, he respectfully inclined his head to her in acknowledgement.  "So like unto your mother."

"You know my mother, my Lord Thranduil?" she asked, sounding genuinely surprised, and with a twitch of her hand dismissed her ladies, who melted into back along the pathway by which they had approached.

"Indeed," he answered, "Your mother and the Silver Lady of Greenwood the Great were good friends, and spent much of their Maidenhood together… in one place or another."  Then repeating himself he removed his gentle touch from beneath her chin.  "You are very like her."

He turned then, trusting she would come to his side, walk with him and as she moved, offered his arm for her slender hand to rest upon.  She accepted, laying her white hand delicately atop his robed sleeve.

"You speak kindly, my Lord," she told him, moving to lead him along meandering paths that followed the babble of the narrow waterway into which the white spray arranged itself.

"I speak truthfully, Lady Arwen," he corrected her. "Your father will no doubt tell you that he and I have seen far too much in our lifetime to indulge such otherwise baseless flattery."

"Very well," she replied softly, and then surprised him entirely as she went on, "Then I too shall speak directly."

He turned his head to look at her, raising an eyebrow as he sensed the Elven maiden had something on her mind.

"It was a dream I had," she told him, and he tipped his head in query and invitation to continue.  "It has bothered me for many days, and until my father spoke of your arrival I had not clue nor inkling as to whom it referenced, only a deep sense of unease."

"You have somewhat of your father's gift?" he suggested softly, but his breathing grew shallow and a worry rose as a constricting band around his chest.

"Perhaps," she agreed, "But I have not spoken of this to my father, nor will I utter it more than once in your hearing, my Lord, for it is too harrowing for me to repeat often."

She brought him to a halt beneath a domed arbour, the arches of which were wound about with deep blue flowers amid dark green vines, and letting go of the light hold she had on his arm… instead trailed her hand through the leaves of the vines, setting their shimmering undersides trembling in the dwindling sunlight.

"There was a tall tree, the leaves of it were silvered, almost white. Beneath a white doe lay in repose. The ground around the deer began to run black with corruption, the grasses withered, and blood vines reached toward her."  She half turned his way, but her eyes remained unfocussed as though she were seeing far away, or reliving her dream.  "There were seven of them, twisted, cracked and as blackened as the ground upon which she lay – all except a single one of them as red as their name—"

"Arwen!"

She jumped, visibly shaken by the sudden awakening, and before Thranduil could move, mesmerised by her speaking of a too familiar nightmare, her father swept up the three low step to draw her into his embrace, enfolding her in his volumes of his robes.

"Lasto, i chen nín," he murmured softly, "Hidh ir ind lín. Hidh i fae lín. Hidh am le."

"Forgive me, Elrond," Thranduil began, but Elrond held up his hand, and shook his head.

"Her mother was often haunted by the same dream, and I myself have seen fragments of it – never the whole," he said, and as Arwen stirred in his arms, he released her and looking down at her instructed gently, "Go and see if your brothers are ready for dinner.  We will meet you inside."

"Of course," she answered, then she took a breath, and turned to Thranduil.  He inclined his head in a respectful bow, and she gave a light curtsey and excused herself.  "My Lord."

Thranduil followed Elrond's gaze, for a moment watching Arwen as she made her way back to toward the house. Then Elrond gestured for them to take a different path and he moved to walk beside the other Elf.

"I sense this is not the first time you have heard tell of such a dream," Elrond ventured after a moment or two.

"Indeed it is not," he answered, for a moment looking down at his at the ground his feet would tread as though he feared to see the same blackening sickness of which Arwen had spoken… and which, "Celyn... many times awoke in fear of such a dream. Once so convinced of the reality of it that I had to walk with her in the gardens of Greenwood to convince her otherwise."

Elrond made a sound of thought, and Thranduil turned his head to look at the Elf Lord as they walked.

"And you?" Elrond asked at last.

"As you… fragments, if anything of it touched my mind."  He shook his head and asked, "Do you believe it could have something to do with the maiden in my Halls.  Your daughter said the dream had bothered her for days before my arrival here, but then when she knew I was here, she knew she should speak of it to me."

"It does seem… somewhat of a coincidence," Elrond answered hesitantly. "Tell me, when was the last time your queen suffered the vision?"

"Shortly before her… before I left for the war in the North," he answered, swallowing hard. "It began a series of restless and ill-omened visions." His voice softened then to an almost heartbreakingly soft regret, "I remember I grew quite… impatient with her… angered."

Elrond reached out and placed a comforting hand upon his arm, the action halting both their steps.

"Thranduil, you cannot blame yourself," he said.

"I should not have spoken to her as I did," he answered, shaking his head.  Then with a sigh he asked, "Have you discovered anything of help?"

"At first I thought not," Elrond answered, "But now, knowing what Arwen has seen, I begin to wonder.  Is this… has it always been a warning not to allow the sins of the past to smother the present beyond all recognition?"

"Meaning?" Thranduil asked.

"Meaning, my dear friend," Elrond with a chuckle that was not entirely without irony, "that while my research may have led me to err on the side of doubt that this maiden you entertain within your Halls could be Greenwood's queen returned to her rightful place, the few precedents we have for such a return to Middle Earth after death neither support nor contradict this possibility conclusively.  Take Glorfindel, for example," Elrond glanced up toward the house, where he knew the Elf in question often sat before the hearth in the Hall of Fire. "He has returned exact in appearance as he was, and yet greatly blessed in his communion of Energies within Light and Life, where-as Luthien…"

"Returned as a mortal in order to remain forever with her beloved Beren," Thranduil finished, and he sighed. "But her appearance remained unaltered… unchanged before all the world."

"And yet," cautioned Elrond, "this vision, this dream that my daughter, and both of our ladies have shared, suggests… suggests mind you, some kind of warning – and my feeling is that is has to do with the very real danger that wherever she may be, her Light is not safe from the sins and sorrows of the past."

"A weighty matter for discussion just before dinner."

A deeply musical voice interrupted their conversation, and both turned to see the aforesaid Elf approach by way of a narrow stair from the lower terrace.  His golden head reflected the rays of approaching evening, and his deep eyes appeared to Thranduil to hold concern for both he and Elrond.

"Forgive me," said the Elf.  "I heard my name.  It is good to see you, my Lord Thranduil."

"Glorfindel," Thranduil greeted him with a reserved warmth, and a respectful inclining of his head, "I had not thought to find you at Imladris."

"Alas, necessity has recently returned me to its safe repose," Glorfindel responded softly, "and to the welcome company of its Lord and Master, not to mention his sons." He turned a smile like sunrise Elrond's way, to add in a manner all but playful, "Elrohir and I were just discussing the finer points of horse husbandry after his recent scouting of Rohan."

"You encourage him too much," Elrond complained good-naturedly, and Glorfindel chuckled softly.

"Perhaps," he admitted softly after a moment, "but he is yet young, and already so weighted by the Shadows stalking Middle Earth."

"So it ever was," Thranduil murmured.

"Indeed so," Glorfindel agreed, turning to him with a serious expression on his face.  "If I may, Lord Thranduil?"

By the manner of his asking, Thranduil knew that he was asking for permission to comment upon what he had overheard as he climbed the terrace steps.

"By all means," he answered, much in anticipation of hearing Glorfindel's thoughts.

"We must always bear in mind that the one constant in any within the world is the soul that inhabits a life.  Presumably the one that has returned is known to some within your court?  At least one that would know well the spirit of the one lost?" Glorfindel asked.

"She was reborn," he answered, his voice solemn, "Not re-embodied."

Glorfindel's eyebrows rose in surprise even as Thranduil saw he tried to school his expression, and for a moment a flush of worry rose in him, but then Glorfindel shook his head.

"Different, but I believe not entirely out of the question." He tipped his head to one side considering for a moment before he said, "A lesson… or perhaps a test embedded in this one's return.   The Valar have their reasons for everything, my friend."

"But a test for her or for me?" Thranduil mused, as much to himself as to the others.

"For you?" Glorfindel asked, and at first Thranduil saw him frown in confusion and glance at Elrond, before he saw understanding dawn in the Elder Elf's face. Speaking almost with reverence he said, "I was never blessed to meet with the Silver Lady of Greenwood, yet I felt her loss keenly."

"We all did," Elrond said, and looked as though to speak on, except that Thranduil interrupted, feeling the too familiar chill returning to his troubled heart.

"And still do," he said. "Each day without her at my side, the struggle against the evil growing in Dol Guldur becomes ever emptier than despair."

"And that is why you do not trust the voice of your own heart to guide you in this?" Glorfindel asked, though truly Thranduil felt it was not a question requiring answer, and when he did not offer one, the golden haired Elf went on.  "Under the circumstances your restraint is commendable, yet… err not too far upon the side of caution.  There may be no other way to discover all the truth of this except in trust."

Thranduil saw Elrond glance up the remaining short stair toward the great hall of the Last Homely House, and following his gaze he noticed the subtle presence of the steward of the Lord of Imladris.  Like his own steward, Lindir was timely and yet polite in summoning the gathered Lords to dinner.

"And yet," Elrond said, gesturing to Thranduil and Glofindel to ascend the steps with him, "the reoccurrence of this vision troubles me.  The timing of it cannot be a coincidence, and the more I think on it, the more I cannot see it as anything other than some kind of warning."

As they reached the great hall, Thranduil could not help but wonder: of what?

** ** **

Nieniriathlim found the Solar purely by accident.

The room was darkened, for finely crafted silken drapes lay closed all around the arches, shutting out the light of sun and stars alike, the former of which barely peeked between the heavy folds. Something – near akin to loneliness – drew her wandering steps to the threshold of the room and whispered in her heart for her to go within.

That first day, she dared little else than to let in the light. 

Crossing the room; feeling the debris of ages rustling underfoot and brushed by the hem of her gown, she reached with an unsteady hand, and all but pregnant with anticipation, she grasped the delicately embroidered hangings and dragged the finely wrought cloths along their railings; pulling them aside.  Motes of dust cascaded from within their near hallowed folds, lighting in the rays of the sun that filtered in through the uncovered archways.

Nieniriathlim suddenly felt as if the very room around her had taken a breath, and deep inside her, some thought, some memory – not of mind, but of her soul – stirred, as if from sleep and in its wake she stood, all but trembling and watched as fallen leaves were blown across the floor in the breezes she had let in.

She heard a footstep in the hall outside, and startled, doe-like, she slipped out to the now uncovered balcony, and pressed her back tight against the pillar there.  Her heart pounded and her chest heaved, leaving her light-headed with the fear of being caught in trespass where she should not be, despite that Tauriel had informed her of the king's instructions that she was left free to explore the Halls as she willed.

When she returned the following day, the leaves were gone and the floor shone, it was so clean. Sweet water and other delicate morsels had been placed on a table by the balcony, and she could not help but spin around, searching for the ones watching, waiting to be caught.

No one came. Though she was certain of another presence, she never saw anyone, and after some time began a quiet exploration of the room.  The furniture had been uncovered and polished, the cushions on the chaise cleaned, and the dust beaten from the drapes which, now she could see them clearly were finer even than she had at first through.

Lifting the edge one of the drapes so that she could see the image, she gazed on the scene of a woodland hunt: a deer the colour of a full moon, darted through a forest glade full of flowers opening in the first flush of spring as she passed.  The trees and vines that bordered the glade were tall, and harboured life in many forms, all turned to watch the passage of the doe in flight, but her pursuer…

Blushing she dropped the edge of the drape, backing away from the image of the many tined Hart, the magnificence of which had stolen her breath, and looked around once more, absently picking up a crisp vegetable and nibbling on it as she did.  The act of eating grounded her, calmed her, and she took in the rest of her surroundings.  The room was warm and clean, everything uncovered and ready for use...  all save one shape in the middle of the sunlit room that remained protected by a shrouding sheet.

It was the size of one of the tables, but angled, the higher edge of it furthest from the lighted archways. She felt drawn to it, but at the same time feared it greatly in one of those moments of conflict, like as came with her dreams, that rippled inside of her so badly that she fled from the room and spent the many hours sitting in the garden below, simply looking up at the balcony that she knew lay outside of the room.

The garden was some comfort to her unsettled feeling.  It was delved within the crescent walls of sheltering mountain caverns, where clever husbandry ensured the life and health of the landscape within. After sitting to rest, and guided by the murmur of a song of water, she came to her feet and began to walk deeper into the garden.

She crossed the bridge that she had traversed when she had walked with the king, before he left, and this time turned away from Halls.  Around her, slowly, as she walked the carefully tended and sculpted plants and flowerbeds, gave way to wilder growth – not unpleasing to the eye, but as though it had been long since Elven hands had laid caring touch to stem and leaf and bud.

A small grove appeared before her as she came from our of the shadow of the thicker bushes, a small, partial ring of low saplings, some no higher than her breast, that seemed somehow overburdened with leaves and bell-shaped flowers encircled an overshadowing and much taller tree.  Some of the saplings were burdened with unopened buds whose weight bent the branches, some almost to the ground. One, in particular, at the centre of the arc drew her attention.

She approached it cautiously, as if it would bolt at the sight of her and were not deeply rooted in the loamy earth beneath her feet.  Slowly she stretched out her hand, stroked her fingers over the soft, silver leaves, that fluttered at her touch, and, murmuring softly, she reached out with her senses and touched the life of the tree.

"Idh, mellon nín.  U-nahtan le."

Many long moments she simple touched the tree; each individual leaf, each bud, sharing herself with the softness of the growing foliage; whispering her secrets, her fears, and confusions - her uncertainties.  Holding nothing back, until with a start, her communion was interrupted by Tauriel's soft voice.

"My Lady, you should not be here," she said.

Nieniriathlim spun to face her.  She had been so focussed on what she was doing she had not heard the Elven woman's approach.

"Forgive me," Tauriel spoke again, "I did not mean to startle you."

"Why?" she asked and frowned in confusion and concern, "You said that I might go where I will."

"I know," Tauriel nodded, "But only the King ventures so far this way.  I had not expected you would—"

"Why?" she asked again.

"My lady?"

"Why would his majesty leave a place, so obvious in need, without tending?" she tipped her head to the side, looking toward Tauriel for answer, but the answer came from another direction entirely.

"There are many memories here," a new, and deeply rich voice – but one that she had heard before – sounded from a pathway not far off and behind her, "and they are old… and hard to bear."

As he spoke, an Elf with hair as white blonde as that of the king stepped onto the pathway.  He was tall, not robed but clad in hunter's gear, though the tunic was fine cloth.  His eyes were a deeper blue than the kings, but in appearance he was enough alike that he could have been none other than the son of King Thranduil himself.

Even as she recognised the prince, greeted him with the soft spoken, "Highness," and moved to dip a shallow curtsy in recognition of who he was, the garden tilted… shifted and an ache, that began in the innermost depth of her belly, spread to encompass all of her heart with a silent cry almost of anguish in a feeling to have missed so much.

It made no sense to her and yet it made perfect sense both at the same time, as her fingers remembered the downy, silken soft feel of a child's hair running through her fingers.

The tilted world upset her balance, and though it were graceful, her rising from the curtsy was uncertain enough to have the Prince speed his steps and catch her arm, even as Tauriel took a hold from the other side.

"Are you injured, my lady?" Tauriel's soft voice was laced with concern.  And Nieniriathlim almost felt the Elven woman's eyes running over her, but she could only look on the sweet, soft countenance of the prince at her side, though she saw not – truly – the Elf he had become.  She reached up, gently ran the very tips of her fingers down the side of his face, as memory stirred – that now familiar shifting in the pit of her stomach that left her lost and uncertain of _when_ she was.

The prince froze at her touch though he offered no objection, not in fact until she spoke again, did he move his eyes from the intense study of her face, as if he too sought… something.

"I know you," she whispered, frowning, unable to catch from where she should know him.  More than having _seen_ him the day before she had been caught and made a part of the Court, almost a part of the royal household… she felt she _knew_ his face, his Light.

"I think you are mistaken, My Lady," he answered, though… his tone seemed to her to hold uncertainty, and through it she detected that made him uncomfortable.  "We have never met."

"…Legolas…"

Her voice was still a whisper, and the prince frowned, pulling from her touch and instead of answering her, he looked at the captain of the guard.

"Tauriel, i chiril thartoled," his voice held concern, but something else – something she could not place. "Togo he îdh, ad toltho nestadril. I adar nín ruith qui tôl ûgarth anín."

Nieniriathlim could not help but turn her head to watch the prince as he moved within the semi-circle of trees in the grove, even as Tauriel steered her gently away.

** ** **

A roiling darkness blew like a wind across the narrow bridges and sharply angled turrets of the crumbling fortress; once bright – a haven – standing now at the heart of a billowing cloud of anguish that ran like poison through the life blood of the Sylvan realm.

He looked around him as he achieved the centre of the courtyard that ended in the broken and crumbled ruin of the eastern wall as though a mighty hand had somehow torn away that part of the ancient keep.

Beyond, the air wavered, as in a great, yet unseen, fire and beyond that, darkness, but… within the darkness, a shadow blacker than night shimmered between form and formless, yet the stench of its malice reached him as he came to a halt at the jagged edge of the wounded castle.  It frightened even _him._

"You sent for me, Master," the Pale Orc would not allow his fear to show. It was a weakness, and he was not weak – he was strong.  The strongest.

_The light… I warned you… awakens._

"I know, my master," he answered, a touch of resentment in his answer. "But we went to the place you told us and found nothing."

_It is there…_

"Nothing, Master… only and old Elf hunter and his mate!" He was insistent, staggered as he tried to withstand the heat of anger that blew across him, all but searing his flesh. "We found nothing else… no one else.  We tore the place apart!"

_It was there…  Show me what you have seen!_

The anger coalesced became like the hot blade of a knife that cut into his head; a burning tongue that feasted on his memories.  He roared against the pain of it, fought to hold on to what he had seen. To no avail as the monstrous malevolence was too strong.

He staggered backwards, steadied himself against a jagged piece of fallen masonry as a single image, a face resolved itself into his mind.

_Find her… kill her!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lasto, i chen nín – Hear [me] my child
> 
> Hidh ir ind lín – rest your mind
> 
> Hidh i fae lín – rest your soul
> 
> Hidh am le – peace upon you
> 
> Idh, mellon nín. U-nahtan le – peace, my friend, I will not hurt you
> 
> i chiril thartoled – the lady is over-wrought
> 
> Togo he îdh ad toltho nestadril – take her to rest and send for a healer [female]
> 
> I adar nín ruith qui tôl ûgarth anín – my father will be angry if something happens to her. [lit: my father will [have] anger if ill deed comes to her.]
> 
> The quotation at the head of the chapter is the Sindarin translation of the warning that Elwing gave to Thranduil so very long ago… Watch for the hand of the Valar


	11. Taur im Duinath

First Age of Middle Earth – 586

 

_Lû ad lû, sui lais lân dant, nodel am ael vregol, i chîr daer Teleri tunc i elnoss nabardh, ui annûn._

 

They were running out of daylight, but still those such as he, that served as guards for the Elven host, pressed the slow moving column of refugees along the track that was the closest to a road that they could hope for.  It meandered precariously, generally in a north easterly direction around this section of what was left of the headland – in places unpassable, making the journey all the more arduous with so many of the vulnerable in tow.

At one such turn – where the track crumbled into the void and the sharp rocks below – and the march of the Elves, of necessity, turned further east, Thranduil drew the grey stallion to a halt, and for a moment peered out through where the trees thinned to nothing across the new shoreline of what little remained of Beleriand.

His shoulder ached as his eyes moved over the jagged fall of many new cliffs, where land had tumbled into the sea, and the water itself had poured away to make them mightier and more deadly yet.  It was a phantom pain, he knew, since he had long since healed from the wounds inflicted by Maedhros the day of his hanging from the cliff; long since, and suffered and healed from fresh hurts in the decades since the Valar had first come – bringing their army to make ruin upon Morgoth, all but done now, as Morgoth had retreated to the bowels of his mines at Angband.  His hordes, his fell Wolves and Wargs, his Wraith and Balrogs and foul serpents, were all in defeat, retreat, or fleeing yet, pursued and held at bay to give relief to the innocent; time and chance to flee – to answer the summons of Ëonwë to make for the Undying Lands.

Hourly, like fallen, white leaves, tossed upon a turbulent lake, the great Teleri ships carried the Kin homeward, ever West; Telerian hearts moved to pity even those of Noldor descent that had foresworn the Fëanorian slaughter of their own kind, and bring them aid.  Through all the conflict, unfailing they had been to uphold the lives of innocents, to bring solace where they, before, were given none.

"Thanduil, what do you see?"

A voice drew him from his thoughts, and he turned his head, then the head of his mount to face the other Elf as Amroth drew to a halt at the other side of the column of Elven non-combatants. He was one of the closest comrades remaining to Thranduil, a friend from childhood with whom he had fought in defence of Doriath.

"Abandonment," he answered before he could stop the word from slipping, unguarded, from his mouth.

"Your father," Amroth said, "I heard he means to take the road East once more, beyond the Great River.  Is it true?"

"There are others of our Kin in the woodlands to the East, he said.  He travelled much in defence of the Havens at Sirion."  Thranduil sighed, glancing westward again to where the Mouth of Sirion _should_ have been; somewhere in the midst of the tumultuous new ocean. His voice soft, he continued, "It was their scouts gave him warning of the movements of the Fëanorians, and the march of the Host of Morgoth."

"We would have been ill prepared, even with the arrival of the Valar, had it not been for that warning," Amroth answered.  "Do not fear your father's denial of The Call."

Thranduil frowned.  Did he fear it?  He knew there were many, among Sindar and Noldor alike that had no desire to take the ships West and turn their backs upon the awakening in Middle Earth, the promise of _life_ and stewardship without the strife of constant war with the Servants of Shadow – if they could but rid the land of Morgoth, not ensnare him under siege in his own realm.  What were _his_ feelings?  What would _he_ do?

_…abandonment…_

He shook his head, and turning back to Amroth said, "One thing is for certain."

He gathered his reins, and began to cautiously manoeuvre his horse through the steady stream of refugees, still carefully picking their path through the thicker undergrowth beside where the track had fallen away, making their own trail onward, until he reached Amroth's side.

"We will not make the new Havens with these people before night is upon us all.  We must find a place to make our camp for the night.  Come.  Ride with me."

And without waiting, he turned his mount and began making his way through the clifftop woodland, his eyes searching ahead for a place where he and the warriors in his company – friends and comrades all – could make a safe waypoint for the vulnerable, the women and the children of their host.

** ** **

Her hand rested against the bark of an ailing oak left weakened by the upheaval of the lands around its roots.  Her gaze was fixed into the gathering gloom, watching beyond the perimeter of firelight – such as it was – for she had heard the column guards say that they dare not build greater fires.  Greater fires gave off greater light, and greater light might attract those of Morgoth's forces still, in places, harrying the travellers along the path to the new Havens.

Instead, several smaller fires had been lit, and small groups of refugees sat or lay resting around each and consequently the sparse woodland for as far as her eye could see was dotted with pinpricks of light, like fireflies.

"My Lady," the soft voice of her Lady's maid sounded at her shoulder, and she turned her head, her vision of the Elven woman partially obscured by the silken hood of the cloak she wore covering her almost silver-blonde hair. "You must come back to the fire."

"I am no _lady_ here," she said quietly, "only another traveller, and there are others in greater need of being closer to the fire than I."

She turned back to watching in the ill lit spaces beneath the trees at the far reaches of their small pool of firelight. There were families there… a mother and her young boy that she had been watching as they journeyed along.

"At least come and eat, Celyndailiel," her maid urged.

She knew she should eat.  They had far to journey and she could not become a burden to those leading them to safer grounds, yet, faced with the obvious needs of the others – like the mother and child – those of 'lesser station' than she, any hunger she might have felt seemed unimportant. She answered her maid with a shake of her head.

"Take what you would have given me out to the families there," he gestured in the direction she looked, adding a soft, "Please," to lessen the harshness of the instruction, and then, reaching into the pouch at her waist, she broke off a small corner of the Lembas she carried, and as she slipped into the shifting shadows of the leafy boughs beneath which they rested in their flight toward safety, she brought the morsel to her mouth.

It stayed the trembling of her fingers, which she had not truly noticed, as she slipped into the gathering darkness.  Its intense nourishment giving her the means to keep moving, to keep guiding the stragglers in from the end of the line of travellers toward spaces around the many campfires.  Giving a soft touch here, a gentle word there to those still hurt, or grieving yet, she tried to bring solace.

A wave of sorrow lapped wearily about her, to see so many of her Kin so bowed – so many long years of battle had brought them to such a place – and she took a moment's rest at a break in the trees that looked out over the war-ravaged coastline.  Where once the great Bay of Balas had stood, now was an angry, ragged scar that slipped ever Eastward, as though some great blight ate at the land, forcing them deeper and deeper into Taur im Duinath for safety's sake.

Above the churning waters, the inky blackness crested with the spittle of the land's madness, a shawl of hope was spread in the midnight blue of the night sky, lit with stars; the promise of hope even in the grip of such shadow as was the world still.

A near gentle touch descended from above, and Celyndailiel started, and half turning, pressing back against the bark of the nearby tree trunk until she discerned that she had been so lost in her thoughts that she had missed the soft approach of the mounted guard, who, as she turned, shifted his mount forward enough to bring him into the light.

"Goheno nin," he said softly. "I had not meant to startle you."

The voice was deep and rich, and though gentle, she had the thought that it would have carried, had such been his intent.  She blinked up at him, taken aback by the strength and beauty mingled in his face; the light that shone in his eyes, as if the reflection of the icy firmament was somehow alive in him, surrounding him, carried in the starlit strands of his white-blond hair.

"It is I should ask your pardon," she told him, noticing for the first time the bundle he cradled in the saddle before him, wrapped in the deep green of his cloak. "I should not have been so lost in thought.  It is not safe here."

"No, you are right," he said, "it is not."

Then, leaning down a little he moved to pass the bundle from his arms to hers, and for a moment she felt the warmth of him against her, then it was gone. The bundle stirred, and peeling aside the cloak that wrapped the bundle a little, she saw within a young boy.  He could have been no more than two, perhaps three _Yestarë_ into his life.  Even before she looked back up to the rider he spoke again.

"He was wandering as one lost upon the road," he said.  "Find his mother if you can, I pray you."

"If such a thing is possible, I shall not rest until I have seen it done," she answered.

He bowed his head in acknowledgement, then tugged gently at the reins of his horse, excusing himself softly as he did.

"Forgive me.  I must see to the safety of our kinsmen."

Without waiting for her answer he turned his mount, and set off a step or two along the track through the trees.  As one coming awake, she suddenly realised he was leaving, and that she still held the infant wrapped in his mantle.

"My Lord," she called after him, softly, "Your cloak…"

He raised his free hand, the one that he did not guide the reins of his horse, as if the gesture were a shake of his head.

_'Keep it.'_

She felt the whisper of his words within her mind as he moved further along the track, and she heard the gentle murmur of them also, carried on the light breeze, then as if an afterthought three more words reached her mind and her ears, and though the words were simple and practical, the weight of them seemed so much more.

_'…for the boy…_ '

** ** **

Morning, when it came, was a cheerless climb of the sun into a sky stained red with the sign of new blood spilled beneath the veil of night, and Thranduil shook his head as he walked to where Amroth stood speaking with the newly arrived watchmen.

Besides fresh battle with small bands of harrying Orcs, skirmishes along the eastern perimeter of the string-of-pearl camps they had laid within the woodland, the night had brought a great trembling of the land.  It did not bode well, and he could tell by the stiff set of Amroth's back that the news brought by the incoming watchmen was not good.

"They say the track to the north of here is completely lost to us," Amroth told him without turning as he sent the others off with a wave of his hand. "Broken from the land and sunk into the ocean's dark abyss by the tremors that shook us from our bedrolls."

"Then we must lead them east," Thranduil answered pragmatically, "Before we turn our march northerly once more."

"And what of the Orcs?" Amroth asked.  "Did we not drive _them_ eastward when they attacked in the night?"

"Those we did not slay," Thranduil answered, "yes, but what choice have we?  Every day we stay close to the coast, the risk increases that the land may crumble from beneath us and bear us to Ulmo's realm."

Amroth sighed, and placed a strong hand upon Thranduil's shoulder, causing him to walk a while with the him.  As they went, the hands of their kinsmen reached for them, as though to touch them would bring some kind of blessing. It made Thranduil profoundly uncomfortable and yet, after only moments he found he too clasped the hands of those reaching for him.

"How many of these people," he continued as they passed from one camp to the next, where they would not be overheard, "do you think we would be able to save, were that to happen?"

Amroth simply shook his head as they reached another camp, and as before, their kinsmen reached for them in want of benediction.

"I'll make a noble of you yet," Amroth teased as Thranduil murmured a soft word of blessing into the morning with one of those whose hands he clasped within his own.  He knew his friend's teasing for what it was, as they both knew that as Oropher's son, nobility already flowed in his veins, as in Amroth's.  Then, as if in remembrance of something Amroth frowned.

"My friend?" Thranduil prompted softly and with not a little worry in his voice.

"Did you ever locate the family of your foundling?" Amroth asked.

"I did not," he confessed, "but I came upon a maiden at the edge of the camp."

He did _not_ confess that she had caught his notice some time before he approached her, nor that he had watched as she moved among the stricken, giving what succour she could.

"I enlisted her help," he finished, drawing himself back from his reverie.

"Was she beautiful?" Amroth asked, his tone sincere enough to draw a serious response from Thranduil.

"She kept herself covered against the night; her hood raised, the cowl of her cloak obscured her features, but shone almost silver in the reflected…" he faltered barely a half breath as he realised the grin on his friend's face, before he finished, "…starlight-you are laughing at me, aren't you, Amroth?"

"But a little," Amroth confessed.  "And the name of this beauty that gave you to wax poetic on such a morn as this?  Wait.  Let me guess.  You did not ask."

"I did not ask," he confirmed, "and neither did she offer it, nor enquire as to mine."

"Thranduil," Amroth scolded, clapping his shoulder heartily.  "You are a hopeless case, and you lead me to believe that you may indeed be cursed with some fate or destiny as yet unknown, as they say are _all_ who remain so long un-promised, let alone unwed."

He tried not to squirm at his friend's words, nor at the shiver of a heightened awareness, like a touch along his spine.  He would not bring himself to turn.

** ** **

"Who _is_ he?" Celyndailiel asked softly, running her fingers through the hair of the young boy who rested now with his head on her maid's shoulder as the waited for the rest of the camp to be struck around them.

Though she had searched long into the night among many of the camps, until her maid had practically had to drag her back to her own rest, she had yet to find either mother or father for the child.  The thought filled her with a sorrow she could not easily describe, for she lived an empathy for the boy, her father lost to war not long after her begetting, and her mother faded from a life grown too cold to bring her any joy – not even the joy of a child's coming.  She felt a bereft orphan's kindred with the little one her maid now held, his tiny arms wrapped across her shoulders, even as his head rested on her shoulder as he slept.

In some ways she envied him that.  As one so young, he still slept.

"Who, my Lady?" asked her maid.

"The Elf there, beside Lord Amroth?" she said, "His back is to us, yet."

She saw her maid look over to where the two Elven warriors stood side by side, apparently talking in earnest, then she heard the serious tone, almost of warning, in which her maid answered.

"That is Thranduil, the son of Lord Oropher. He and his father are Sindar of Doriath."  Her maid turned back to her and added, "There is some tell that before the Kinslaying at Sirion, Oropher had ridden eastward, and that the Sylvan Elves were they that gave warning to him of the Fëanorian's knowledge of the Jewel."

Celyndailiel looked back across the distance to where the white-blond hair shone in the morning light, only half listening to the additional information that her maid had volunteered, un-asked for, even so she tipped her head as she accused softly, "Prejudice? From you?"

"My warning comes not of prejudice, Lady Celindailiel, but of pragmatism," her maid argued. "These are times of war, and he a—"

"He was the one that brought the boy to me," she interrupted softly, running her fingers once more through the child's hair, denying her maid's words, and still watching across the distance between where she stood and where the Sindarin Lords still conversed together. A shiver of heat and cold ran through her as she did.

"Well if that is so, then this," her maid said, bringing her back into the presence of the day, and as she turned to look at the other Elven woman, the maid hefted up the fine cloak – folded as it was – no longer wrapped around the child, "would be his, and I should return it to him."

"No!" Celyndaliel's command in the negative was almost like a cry, and at the maid's raised eyebrow, she repeated with more dignity and calm.  "No.  He said to keep it… for the boy."

"Celyn," her maid frowned, looking at her as if searching for something in her eyes – as if relieved when she did not find what it was that she sought – "The cloak will be long since fallen to ruin before ever this one is old enough to wear it."

"The child has no blanket to guard against chill, if this is all he has, then let him keep it," she argued, not understanding by what impulse she was moved to prevent her lady's maid from approaching the Elf Lord even for so simple an act as to return of his cloak.

They might have argued back and forth had not a sudden cry, echoed in the awakening cry from the boy in her maid's arms, drawn both their eyes toward a figure hurrying toward them from just beyond where Lords Amroth and Thranduil stood.  The alarm in the cries had both warriors, almost as a reflex, reaching for the hilts of their blades, drawing them forth, and almost… _almost_ … Celyndailiel threw out her arm to stay their hands, recognising in what they could not see… _'…what you cannot feel…'_ …the singular lack of threat.

"It's all right," she called out, slowly extending a gesture toward the Elven woman who had frozen in place at the first hiss of steel, before she said more softly, "It's all right."

She took the child from her maid's arms and as gentle as ever, murmuring softly to the distressed boy as she crossed to where the Elven woman waited, all but wringing her skirts.  She dropped the fabric from between her hands, only to clasp Celyndailiel's free hand, and hold it tight against her heart for a moment before she reached for her son.

"Ionen," she murmured, holding him tightly, as though he were the last person upon Middle Earth to hold meaning for her.  "Ionen…   Oh, thank you, my lady… _thank_ you."

"It was not I," she said honestly. "I am merely the instrument of his return to you.  He was found on the road by—"

As Celyndailiel gestured toward where the prince and Thranduil stood, meaning to divert the thanks and the credit where it was due, a sudden and unexpected wash of fear and pain; a burning took her, and she gasped bringing the woodland back into focus almost before she had realised it had dissolved into a violence of heat and light.

As the woman and the woodland came back into focus she caught the end of what she was saying – no… not saying – almost _spitting_ at the Sindar, "….nothing to do; nothing to feel and no place to turn!"

The woman spun, and started to hurry away, and frowning in utter confusion, Celyndailiel began to move after her, calling out, "Wait--!"

A hand closed around her arm, firm but gentle, halting her steps even before she had taken more than a one.

"Let her go."

It was Lord Amroth's voice that followed the touch, and Celyndailiel turned her head to him, her eyes meeting the blue-grey of his, and she was forced to banish the knot that tied itself in her middle, an emotion she would later name as disappointment, but which for the moment was lost in the confusion she felt at what had just occurred.

He shook his head and repeated himself, "Let her go, my Lady.  She is merely overwrought," but she could tell that he no more believed that than she did herself.

"But I do not—" she cut herself off and began again, "Lord Amroth, forgive me.  I was just concerned for the insult."

"I took no offense," he said quietly, releasing her arm.  "We are all of us wary; not at our best.  These are trying times.  I am certain my companion feels the same."

It took Celyndailiel everything she was to try not to look at Thranduil, and yet still she failed not to flick a glance at him. He merely inclined his head, in silent but polite acknowledgement.

"I should return to my companion," Celyndailiel said, offering Amroth a shallow curtsy. "By your leave."

"You need not my leave, hiril nín," he answered, "though the morning will the duller for want of your company."

He bowed to her, and let her go all the same, and Celyndailiel cursed herself for the blush that coloured her cheeks as she withdrew, and for the knowledge that it was not Amroth that could have persuaded her to do otherwise, and _that_ only deepened her blush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taur im Duinath – Forest between Rivers
> 
> Yestarë – Day of new Solar Cycle (new year) in the Elven calendar
> 
> Goheno nin – forgive me
> 
> hiril nín – my lady
> 
> The quotation at the head of the chapter is a representation of what one might have seen, had one looked out to sea from the ruined coastland of Beleriand – _Hourly, like fallen, white leaves, tossed upon a turbulent lake, the great Teleri ships carried the Kin homeward, ever West._


	12. Aluiata

Chapter Twelve

Third Age of Middle Earth – 2840

 

_Goston lû telitha ir boe tûrenc no orthernen bronem i waew tolel._

 

The last notes of the canticle left the air in the Hall of Fire ringing with vibration that passed from the harp strings and left the room breathless and silent, but for the crackling of the fire. Thranduil reached with his free hand to swipe at wetness that dripped from his lashes to the bathe his cheeks with the poignant reminder that his heart beat still, in despite of his sudden and aching loneliness.  He sipped from the goblet he otherwise nursed, savouring the ruby liquid as the wine – a particular blend of fruit and spice as bittersweet as the emotion kindled in the melody and harmonies of the song – warmed a path to the seed of hope that he had begun to nurture almost fearfully in the depth of his heart.

As he lowered the goblet to the table, the glow of the fire caught in the dulled Star Opal that dominated both his index finger and his attention, and turned the blue-white gemstone to a vivid, sanguine gold.  Beset by a sudden, sad curiosity he tilted his head, raising his hand, turning it first one way then the other watching the play of the light against the facets of the jewel, a pale reflection of the fire that used to burn from within.

"Forgive me, my friend." Glorfindel's soft voice interrupted his melancholy and he diverted his gaze to watch as the other Elf set down his harp and rose from his seat beside the fire, coming to Thranduil's side, to retake his place at the table. "I had not meant to touch you so with my song."

"There is nothing to forgive," Thranduil answered equally as softly.  "It has simply been... millennia since last I heard it so beautifully performed."

"Your words are kind," Glorfindel said, and picking up his goblet, raised it in a salute of acknowledgement.

Thranduil shook his head, but could not answer before he sensed another presence at his side, and turned his head to see Elrond also returning to his place beside him at the table. Had he been so distracted by his own emotion kindled by the music that the Lord of Imladris had left his side without his notice?

"It was at the wedding feast of Thranduil and Celyndailiel," Elrond said as he sat, and even as he spoke set an ornately carved box upon a silken cloth atop the table in front of Thranduil and finished, "when last _I_ heard it sung."

"Now I understand," said Glorfindel in a tone of mixed reverence and regret.

Thranduil tipped his head, however, his attention fully captured by Elrond's actions as the other elf reached out and lifted the lid of the box.

"I have always kept it," he said softly, and Thranduil looked down, his heart suddenly beating so fiercely that he thought for a time that it was trying to tear itself apart.

There upon a deep blue velvet pad within the box was the twin to the ring he had, but a moment before, been musing over solemnly; though it was smaller, to fit a much slenderer hand. He swallowed hard, and whispered Elrond's name.

"In spite of your refusal to take it from me," Elrond answered, "I have kept it safe against the time of the fulfilment of her promise to you, Thranduil."

Thranduil looked up from his contemplation of Celyn's ring, to find himself gazing almost at a reflection of his own emotion in the tears that rested uncharacteristically in Elrond's eyes. His face creased with a confusion of painful memory.

"I should have known," Thranduil barely breathed, though he made no move to reach for the ring, as the words of Celyn's promise that Galion had first spoken to him, and Elrond many times after, hovered in the air between them.

"The strength of her conviction, my friend… I had no doubt that if there were a way, she would find it," Elrond said.

"I could not believe... I dared not."  Thranduil confessed. "Forgive me."

Elrond shook his head and moved to place a warm hand onto Thranduil's shoulder.

"There is nothing to forgive, my friend," he said softly. "Not as you have, but I understand what it is like to endure a separation from the one who lights your way in dark places. And when you learned of her passing, you were barely healed enough to cling to life yourself." He tightened his grip on Thranduil's shoulder then, and said, "I do not know if you remember the fight it was to convince you not to let go your hold on life, back then. Oh, the arguments we had, you and I."

"I remember," Thranduil said, and pushing back his chair he stood, in turn gripping Elrond's shoulder for a barely a moment to make his action seem less like the dismissal for which it could have been taken.

Elrond stood with him, and walked barely a pace behind as Thranduil cross the Hall of Fire toward the fireplace, where he stopped and half turned to face his long-time friend in time to see Elrond give him a wry, but troubled smile.

"Sometimes, it seems to me that part of the purpose of Imladris is to keep those precious items that must not be lost to ruin and decay: Your queen's marriage ring, the broken shards of Narsil itself... those and other things... all are here. " Elrond said, and it was only then that Thranduil saw that, in rising, Elrond had picked up the box from the table, and now held it out between them.

He turned his head away, and the haunted hollowing in his eyes deepened. His hands at his sides barely moved against his robes, the fabric rustling in the quiet that had fallen over the hall.

"I barely ever think about that time," he murmured, his voice deep against the crackling of the timber in the fireplace. "How inviting it seemed to me then… to slip away to nothing…"  He shook himself imperceptibly. "But why think _now_ to lose myself to despair?"

He moved, slowly, deliberately, reaching for the ring with his left hand, an almost painful hope all but overwhelming him as he took the jewel that had been untouched for millennia into the trembling warmth of his hand.

The shock ran through him the moment his fingertips brushed the mithril of the band. The room rushed away from him, darkening in a heartbeat, and the last thing he saw was Elrond beginning to turn away apparently unaware of what was occurring.

** ** **

The leaves of the trees rustled in the breeze that ghosted her steps in the darkened garden. She had not meant to wait until so late before she returned, and now curiosity and the nagging pull of some strange impulse guided her footsteps, as if from some memory, across the bridge.

She almost felt the sensation of the absence of warmth upon her palm. The memory of the time when she had crossed it in the company of the king so tangible, so close, that she almost expected him to take her hand once more as she reached the other side. He did not.

He was not there.

She felt his absence like a void within her awareness. It was uncomfortable. It was wrong.

The healer that had attended her at the Prince and Tauriel's behest had looked her over and to the Captain of the Guard had spoken only of a fatigue wrought of the Shadow that stalked their woodland home, and Tauriel had seemed satisfied – and had left to carry word of it to the Prince, and yet, when left alone with her, the healer had turned knowing eyes upon her, eyes that accused, though without malice – more as though in hope – and had said simply, "My Lady, you are long awaited. Rest," before she departed.

The path beneath her feet became less even, as root and vines that had encroached made their presence felt, and ahead Nieniriathlim heard the whisper of the silvered leaves that had so drawn her before.

"Telin," she whispered softly, moving toward the arc of trees and once again ran her fingers over the softness of their leaves; over their struggling overburdened branches, feeling their life running over her hands almost like a sigh, and the same sense of dislocation threatened at the edges of her vision.

This time she embraced it, and accepted the fear that attended it, allowing the feeling to draw her through the arc of leaf and branch, the light cloak she wore snagging in the unkempt foliage, and she left it in place, in spite of the bite of chill in the air.

"Man golwath gerich?" she breathed.

She pushed through the last remaining leaves that barred her way as easily as if they had parted in answer to her question, to show her what she wished to know. The moon and stars, in collusion with the will of Lasgalen Halls, broke free of the shroud keeping them from lighting, as was always the intent, the hallowed space within.

Before her, spreading overhead, stood a tall overarching tree, its uppermost branches diamonded with spray from the tumbling falls beyond their stand. The tumble of the water descended as a whisper through the foliage to the crystal clarity of the pool at the base of the tree, the roots wound like embracing arms around the basin of the pool, and beyond, almost spot lit by the shaft of moonlight, was the glowing shape of a resting deer – a doe – so lifelike it seemed as if the vines and foliage that grew around her base yet held a real animal.  Nieniriathlim was so convinced of it that she gave a soft gasp of alarm and started forward at once.

Each step closer that she took, however, tightened around her the grasp of the memory and vision. The dream awakened in her, and even as she stumbled and fell to her knees at the water's edge, recognition set a panic in her heart that she could not explain – stronger than her fear of the dream that recurred too regularly for her sensibilities to handle – she cried out a plea of denial.

"Lá, Eru, u-ata!"

Still, her gaze was drawn into the ever darkening waters, and she fell into the darkness along with it.

_Her arms burned with the pain of pushing open the heavy door at a full run, and her balance failed her as her skirts caught atop the comforters on the top of the bed as she scrambled over it, all but falling against the solid strength of he that she loved as he caught her._

_"What haste is this?"_

_An edge to his voice, but she ignored it in the ache of foreknowledge of her loss._

_"You cannot leave, you must not!  If you go you will—"_

But the vision shattered as the chill of the water closed over her head, and both present and the vision faded into the dark, soft focus of a cold, familiar place which she knew she had not visited, and yet also had long been held a captive there. Words swirled around within her ears like the sound of her own blood as she tried to take a breath… _My Lady, you are long awaited…_ _you are long awaited… you are long—_

"Gerennichen!"

The single word eddied around the whole of her like a storm of ice and dread within the darkness, and a voice not her own and yet entirely hers pleaded for clemency.

"No!  You cannot!" the voice from out of darkness said, and she found herself whispering the words along with the 'other' from the depth of her heart.

"Nothing was said that was a true telling, no word of guidance," they cried together and alone she wept, "No name was told to me!"

But the grasp of cold indifference but tightened at her protests, and she felt herself falling, fading further from awareness of the wet, cold darkness into which her physical body had committed itself.

** ** **

Legolas frowned.  For several days the reports coming in from the watch commanders had been the same: areas of woodland had been hacked and burned, outlying settlements had been torn down and the inhabitants slain, or else they had found their way to his father's Halls to plead for sanctuary with horrific tales of their own. Something was on the move – something dark and dangerous.  There was so much happening, all of it trouble, and at such a time as traitors and strangers had come into their midst, just as unsettling thoughts had sent his father off with some urgency to consult with Lord Elrond in Imladris, it was too much of a coincidence. Legolas had long since learned to distrust coincidence.

As if this were not enough to trouble him beyond hope of rest, there was the matter of his father's _'guest'_ whose actions had disturbed him more than he cared to admit.

_Though he froze at her touch there was a disturbing familiarity in it, one that was almost welcome… strangely missed… and he searched her face for some sign of foreknowing; some reason to believe that they had met before. He could not find it, and yet…_

_"I know you," she whispered, frowning._

_"I think you are mistaken, My Lady," he answered, though even to himself, he did not sound convincing – that thought alone made him uncomfortable.  "We have never met."_

_"…Legolas…"_

_Her whisper of his name sent a deeper shiver through him, though he supposed the name of the Prince of Greenwood was not entirely a secret. She could have heard it anywhere, but it was not that she had whispered his name, more in the_ way _that she had said it._

_His frown deepened, and he pulled from her touch, and looked toward Tauriel for her to take the maiden away._

As if thought of troubles had conjured them, Legolas sensed the captain's presence, and the disquiet held in her heart.

"What is it, Tauriel?" he asked.

"Legolas," she addressed him in the familiar, and a part of him was glad of that, they had been friends for many years, and the Valar knew he had few enough real friends. His life had been governed by duties: of a warrior and hunter; of a prince of Lasgalen… _Of a motherless son…_

He frowned, and saw Tauriel do likewise, tilting her head in a query he could not answer. Instead he encouraged softly, "Tell me."

"I would not have come to you," she said softly, "save that I know the King must have charged you with her safety. It is the Lady Nieniriathlim. Her maids came to me to say she is missing."

"Missing?" He fixed her with an even more troubled stare, and she gave him a helpless look, that even as she answered, made him move to gather his blades and his bow.

"They went to help her retire, and she was not in her rooms," she answered. "Nor was she anywhere within that wing of the royal apartments."

He stared at her again, and this time she avoided his gaze. They both _knew_ in which wing she had been installed.

"She cannot have gone far," he said at last, and moving past Tauriel, tugged on her arm, encouraging her to follow, called out instructions to the palace guards as he went.

"Faro im i rhynd! Hiro i chiril Nienieriathlim!"

He headed toward the gate, wanting to be sure that she hadn't somehow managed to find her way outside, and into the woodland beyond. His father's instructions had been explicit.

_"Treat her well, but be sure she remains within our walls,"_ he had said. _"I entrust you with her safety, Legolas.  Do not let me down."_

The gates were firmly shut, and the guard reported that they had been so since late afternoon, when the patrol set out for the outer woodland. None other than the guards and patrols had been in or out all day. He nodded curtly to them, and turned to head back, deeper into the halls, searching his thoughts, listening to the currents of air that passed subtle messages to those that had ears to hear. Unconsciously, his steps turned toward the royal apartments, and the stairway that led up to the Queen's quarters. He felt Tauriel at his back, hurrying to keep up.

"Legolas, we checked the royal apartments."

"Every room, every corner?" he demanded, taking the steps two at a time.

"Yes," she answered, "The bed chamber, dressing chamber, the bathing rooms…"

"The Queen's Solar?"

He halted abruptly, turning to face Tauriel as her steps faltered.

"Forgive me, I—"

"You _told_ me she had been spending much time among my mother's things!" he erupted. "How could you not think to search there, and search there _first_."

"I will—"

"No," he shook his head. "Check the terrace and the gardens. I will search the Solar."

He could not explain – not even to himself – why he would not allow Tauriel to go with him, nor to allow her to be the one to search in what had been, by all that he had ever been told, his mother's favourite place within the halls, but he felt that the ghosts awaiting him there were _his_ to face – and face alone – even if the timing were inopportune.

** ** **

The Pale One sniffed the air, his nostrils flaring and distaste blossomed on his face as the stench of Elvish flesh, and Elvish magics rolled over his senses. They had passed this way – but why?

He had begun by retracing his steps to the outlying dwelling where the words, projected into his mind by the growing power of his master, had told him he would find the one he was to remove, but when he had led his band of Orcs there, there had been no one save two grown elves – no maiden – and certainly not any elf that he could imagine interfering with his master's rise.

He tipped his head, musing on that, and upon this new piece of information. Magics could mean only one thing: the elves he scented had come from the Elvenking's Halls and were no regular patrol.  Why now would two such elves as he had slaughtered command such attention?

"…If not for the same concerns as our master!" he growled his thought aloud, and lashed out, catching a nearby Orc across the chest and pushing him back as he went to move past.

"Concern?" the Orc snarled, shouldering another in retribution for the Pale One's treatment of him.  For his troubles, the Pale One grabbed the collar of what passed for his armour and roared in his face.

"After that patrol," he threw the Orc in the direction the scent grew stronger, "We must know what they know!"

** ** **

The warmth of the Hall of Fire around him faded to a misty, icy chill, and overlaid with Imladris' bright and welcoming décor, a vaulted hall with arches high above his head, and tall, dark pillars faded into the soft and failing focus of his vision.

Sound became an uncomfortable dullness, and as his wife's ring slipped from his grasp, to strike the floor at his feet, the soft chink of metal on tile as it bounced sounded as a pick axe against rock, high in pitch, but slow… as slow as reality had become to him.

"The King!" Glorfindel's voice full of alarm rang out, "Look to the King!"

Only then did Thranduil realise that he had staggered, when Elrond – still standing in front of him – turned back and he felt the strength of the other's grasp at his elbow.

_"Gerennichen!"_

The word was a sibilant, chill breeze that set his mind ablaze, and of a sudden the entire left side of him burned with physical memory.  Warned….?  But about what?

He vaguely acknowledged that someone had placed a chair behind him, and was helping Elrond to lower him into it. He fought to push off whatever it was that beset him and not to allow the rising fear he was beginning to feel to overwhelm him. He could not help it. Something was wrong; terribly wrong.

From the depths of half remembered, pain filled delirium he recognised what he was seeing.

"Mandos'," he manage to whisper, reality a hazy, half seen image, as indistinct as the vision doubled over the top of it. "…halls…"

"Wine!" Elrond snapped, and an indistinct figure that looked like Glorfindel moved away, stooping to pick up something from the floor as he went. Another voice, less clear still teased at the edges of his awareness. He closed his eyes, his brow furrowing as he sought to hear it, even tipping his head slightly as though that too would help.

_…chae boe le…?_

He felt an almost ghostly touch, as if he were being circled and a hand trailing over his neck, it raised his nerves and skin into a frenzy of awareness.

_…nalla le… o mbaur dín…_

"What is this?" he asked. The vision turned about him as though he himself had tried to turn to see the unseen speaker. To no avail… and he felt himself growing lost in the chill. "Show yourself!"

He felt the press of cold crystal to his lips, and the burn of a fortified wine filled his mouth, his throat, as he swallowed, and the vision spun away, fading as the warmth of the room returned, and with it came the sure and dreadful knowledge of a terrible danger stalking closer yet to his Woodland Realm, his kingdom.

"I must return to Greenwood," he gasped, catching Elrond's wrist as the other elf tried to make him drink again. He turned his head aside.

"You, my friend," the Elf Lord answered, "are going nowhere, save to your rest – at least until morning."

"Lord Elrond, my Lord Thranduil…" Glorfindel interrupted softly, and opening his hand, offered the item he had picked up from the floor. Thranduil's eyes narrowed, barely, for there upon his palm lay Celyn's ring, but in the depth of the opal, the smallest hint of a fire burned, shimmering within its facetted surface. Glorfindel did not miss that he had seen it, and explained, "It was like this after you dropped it.  I thought at first it was simply a reflection of the fire in the hearth, but..."

As he trailed off, Thranduil raised his own hand and saw there the same inner fire – barely there – chasing in amber and red within the blue-white sheen of the gemstone.

"Let me see," he demanded of Glorfindel, holding out his hand for the ring, but the other elf looked in doubt toward Elrond.

"I believe whatever danger there was – whatever happened – has passed," Elrond answered, "for the moment at least."

He nodded to Glorfindel, who handed the ring carefully to Thranduil.  He examined it closely, every facet, turning it first one way then the other, as though unable to believe what he saw.

"The power," he frowned, looking at Elrond who was so well versed in lore that he valued his counsel. "The energy within these rings…"

"Yes, it would seem they have awakened," Elrond agreed. "Though to what end, I cannot say. Tell me what you saw. You spoke of Mandos."

"I found myself once again on the threshold of his halls," Thranduil confessed, "As before, when the dragon's fire took me, it was distant, indistinct, as if I were observing the scene through glass frosted with many layers of ice, and yet I could still see everything _here:_ the fireplace, the tables, you…"

He trailed off, looking around. The elves in the Hall of Fire had once again resumed their evening diversions, as if he and Elrond merely conversed before the fire – two old friends – and Glorfindel in company with them, pulled up a chair to listen as Thranduil explained himself.

Lindir furnished them with refilled goblets of fine wine and slowly, Thranduil began to feel more grounded, but with that came worry. The awareness of danger in Greenwood was ever his blessing and his burden to feel, and he could not ignore that danger, no matter what else befell him. It was his duty to see that all were safe.

"It would seem," said Elrond, when he had finished speaking, and Thranduil looked at him as he pointed to the ring, "that you have the answer to your question. The rings are awakened, and would not be were either of you still held within the Halls of Waiting."

"Lord Elrond speaks truly," Glorfindel offered.

"Then, my friend," Thranduil said, a hard wave of emotion welling inside of him in tandem with the worry he felt, "it is fortunate that you were the one to guard such a precious treasure. I owe you much for this."

"The only debt I would hold you to, Thranduil, is that you give yourself every chance to succeed in whatever challenge it is that Mandos has set before you both." Elrond sighed softly, and Thranduil sensed that there was far more that he had not said, even as the Lord of Imladris continued, "I fear a time is coming when we will all of us need every strength that we possess to survive the oncoming storm."

Elrond then shook his head, fixing him with a serious gaze as he continued quietly, "You and Celyn were always stronger together, perhaps that is why she has returned to you now… now with the power of the Necromancer rising in the south of the forest, and the White Council... Saruman in particular seeming to be so... reticent to act..."

"And why she must be guarded, and nurtured through her reawakening with the utmost care," Glorfindel voiced the concern that Thranduil had not yet dared. "For if he also senses she is returned to you, then I do not doubt he will do all in his power to take her from you once again – or to prevent that reawakening."

"And why I _must_ return to Greenwood," Thranduil agreed. "I will _not_ lose her again."

** ** **

Legolas hesitated in the doorway of the Solar, the one place he had avoided in all of the rooms of the palace, but which he remembered as if he had simply walked out of the room, mere moments before.

His eyes sought and found the wide daybed nestled beneath the window that looked out upon the terrace, the view of the stars from the daybed burned into his memory, as one who had been looking too long at the light and had burned the pattern into their retina. The warmth from the fireplace reached the bed, to give the best of both – the cool of the outside and the warmth of the in.

Even before he went in he could tell the room was empty; his the only life within the room.

"But not the only soul," he murmured, running his hand across the one, still covered piece of furniture in the room. It bothered him that it was still covered – and he could not explain why. Had he then hoped…?

"No!" he said more loudly, almost startling himself with his vehemence.  The suggestion was a lie – some foul trick of the dark powers that had already encroached upon his woodland home. Was that why, then, he felt such disquiet? Why he was so unsettled?

He took a breath, trying to banish such a line of thought.  He was wasting time. Trying to face the lingering pain of his mother's loss, and all that had come from it was not getting them any closer to finding the woman that had conjured so much questioning in the first place.

About to turn his steps toward the doorway that led outside, to join Tauriel in her search of the gardens, the terrified, summoning cry ran him through with the ice of the panic it possessed.

"Legolas!"

It _was_ Tauriel's voice, and it came from the centre of the garden, near to where the Silver Falls blessed the Memorial Grove; near to where they had found the Lady Nieniriathlim only hours before. Had some act of defiance at his warning returned her to that hallowed space?

"Legolas!" her cry came again, drawn out and desperate, and at that realisation his inertia broke. He made for the doorway to the terrace, all but leaping down the steps to the floor of the garden, bow in hand, and ready to exchange the ranged weapon for his blades should the need arise… and yet, he knew full well that there should be no such need – not for bow nor blade within his father's halls.

A hollow sense of nausea worried at his gut. His feet carried him silently and swift across the narrow bridge and toward the low trees that encircled the grove. As he drew nearer, he could hear what seemed to be a watery thrashing.  Had some foul thing been carried down the falls and into the heart of their protected haven?

"Tauriel!" he called to the captain of the King's Guard, his friend, as he began to push his way through the branches. The leaves trembled at his passing and the sound of splashing grew louder, and more frantic.

"Help me."

Tauriel's voice came from beside the pool at the base of the Silver Falls that curtained the memorial itself. She was struggling, it seemed, to lift something – some _one_ – from the water, which he knew was deceptively deep, and stirred by hidden currents as the water flowed through fissures to feed the many springs and falls within Lasgalen Hall itself.

He did not hesitate. Dropping his bow beside the gnarled roots of the overarching tree, he jumped into the chill of the water, the icy depths momentarily stealing his breath, before he surfaced again, moving quickly toward where Tauriel struggled to keep the figure above the water's surface.

If he didn't know otherwise, he would have sworn that something was pulling her down, but he had seen nothing in the pool that should not have been there, and sensed no other force at work… nothing?

That in itself was wrong, and he frowned as he slipped an arm around the slender waist of the elf maiden, Nieniriathlim, to help keep her head out of the water until Tauriel could pull her to safety.

The waters here always _sang_ with the voice of Ulmo, and yet was silent, as if a net of restraint had been cast about, and some purpose – to be hidden from the eyes and ears of the Lord of Water – was yet afoot.

He spluttered, realising that whatever force acted upon the elven maiden was also at work upon him as he breathed in a mouthful of water, and kicked harder against the water beneath him, and tried to brace a foot against a crack pool's rocky wall.

"Pull her up!" he gasped as he surfaced again.

"I cannot," Tauriel said, leaning further down into the pool, trying to get a better grasp of Nieniriathlim's arms to pull her up. "There is some weight about her… some—"

Whatever else she said was lost to the rushing sound of water in his ears as he went under again, and this time he did not fight, allowed himself to sink downward, releasing his grasp on Nieniriathlim, following the trail of her skirts, heavy with water that swirled in the moonlit deep, trying to be sure that it was not _they_ that were caught on anything, on some jagged rock, or root.

They were not, but as soon as he release the elven maid he was free to move about the water unhindered, unweighted by whatever impediment had her in its grasp, but what could – what _would_ – fight with the power of Ulmo, whose love had _always_ been for the Eldar, often in despite of his Valar Kin.

A cold shiver faltered through Legolas at that.  Could there be dissention among the Valar in the West? Could this maiden be the cause… involved? How did this involve him, his father? No. He _would not_ allow it. He would not be a pawn in some ancient game; some ancient grudge… and as his father before him – and his grandsire before that, Legolas acted in contrary to that Will.

He swam swiftly upward, using all of his strength and pushing with an arm and his legs against the side of the pool – the other he slipped once more around the maiden's waist, and cresting the surface of the water, ordered in earnest, "Tauriel, pull!"

Growling in effort, he heaved against the side, and Tauriel's cries of effort mingled with his. Faintly, but growing louder he heard the rustle of other feet hurrying closer; felt the firm grasp of mailed hands close around his straining biceps as he tried to lever himself up against the pools edge, and at last, with the combined effort of his determination, Tauriel's desperate struggle, and the not untimely arrival of the palace guard, he and Nieniriathlim were lifted to flop like fish against the loamy ground.

He lay for a moment, as long as he dared, trying hard to catch his breath, while the hands of guards fussed around him, seeking to aid him as their prince.  A moment more and he pushed them away, and rolled, still breathless to his side, to drag himself the short distance to where Nieniriathlim lay, motionless.  He checked her for life, struggled to half turned her, squeeze the water from her lungs, oblivious to all else.

He leaned down to her, to whisper in earnest against the shell of her ear, "You _must_ live… do you hear me?"

"Mellon…" Tauriel said in soft regret, a hand upon his shoulder as if to pull him away.

"A moment," he snapped. "Wait!"

A moment passed, and still nothing, and then, just as he was about to sit up, and away, the elven maiden gave a little cough, and then another, releasing a stream of water from her mouth, before reaching up, eyes opening, she barely brushed her fingertips against his cheek.

"Legolas… tithenen," she barely whispered, before closing her eyes once more, her hand falling away.

He looked skyward, breathing out a trembling breath he could not explain, tears blurring the sight of the stars in his eyes. He slipped his arms, one beneath her shoulders, the other beneath the weight of her sodden skirts, behind her knees and lifted her against him, preparing to rise, and looked to the nearest guard.

"Your cloak," he asked hoarsely, and shifted her in his arms as the guardsman obeyed, wrapping the cloak around her. Then he added, "See to it a messenger is sent to Imladris. My father must hear of this," before he turned and made for the path to the royal apartments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Telin – I am come
> 
> Man golwath gerich? – What secrets do you keep?
> 
> Lá, Eru, u-ata – Please, Eru, no more [lit: not again]
> 
> Gerennichen! – You were warned!
> 
> Faro im i rhynd! – Search the Halls!
> 
> Hiro i chiril Nienieriathlim – Find the lady Nieniriathlim.
> 
> …chae boe le…? – …more do you need…?
> 
> …nalla le… – …she calls to you…
> 
> …o mbaur dín… – … from her peril… [lit: from her need]
> 
> Mellon – friend
> 
> Tithenen – my little one [lit: my little]
> 
> The quotation at the header of the chapter is Elrond's warning to Thranduil that her fears they will need all of their strength to face the oncoming storm.


	13. Harlindon nu Lindon

Second Age of Middle Earth - 50

 

_Nal thand le sui i gam o Iluvatar insë_

 

The cry of wheeling gulls from the nearby Havens drifted in through the open windows.  Celyndailiel sighed and set aside her book.  She smoothed the folds of her skirts as she rose to her feet, and waved away the maid who had looked up from her needlework, ready to rise in attendance on her.

"Go on with your diversions," she told not only her, but others of her companions who had also begun to set aside their own works.

She was restless.  The feeling had been growing with increasing insistence since the building and planting, and the establishment of the court at Lindon was now all but completed, and life settled to kind of rhythm in the half century since the ending of the War of Wrath.

"The king will be displeased," the maid reminded her. "He does not like to see you about unattended."

Celyndailiel sighed again.

"I will deal with the king," she said, shaking her head.  She knew the maid was right. Only the day before, Ereinion had found her at liberty in the court and alone, unattended…

_"It is not fitting, Celyn," Gil-Galad said as he moved to her side and offered her his arm in courtly fashion, waving the other to dismiss his own escort,  "for you to wander through the halls and gardens of court unaccompanied by either companion, maid or escort."_

_"Escort?" she questioned, laying her hand over his and walking at his side.  "Jailor you mean."_

_"Guard, I'll grant you," he said with concern in his tone, "but 'jailor,' Celyn?"_

_"Ereinion, I had greater independence when I was hidden away from all the world with our Nandorin allies in the east!"_

_"You were safer then," he said._

_"Safer, hanaren?" she argued softly, "How could I be safer than now? Morgoth is long since defeated and cast from Middle Earth, his minions scattered and many of our Kin, that might have posed a threat to you, to us, have returned to the West answering Manwë's summons. Here_ we _are fully established in our new havens among friends.  What could be safer?"_

_"There are_ still _those abroad in Middle Earth who would like nothing more than to see the line of Finarfin broken and at its end."_

_"Any among our Kin have either answered Manwë's call or else are too busy establishing their own place in this New Age to bother after ours," she contradicted, repeating herself, though she knew there was a grain of truth in what her brother said._

_"Celyn—" He sighed as she interrupted him again._

_"Ereinion, enjoy this moment of peace." She came to a halt and turned so that she could lay her hand against his chest. "I know you seek only to protect me. I understand that you feel the loss of our mother greatly, and feel you must be both mother and father to me now, but… beloved, you_ cannot _be all this to me_ and _king to our people.  You_ must _trust me, and trust our counsellors to uphold the decision mother made. If you continue as you are, people will wonder, people will question – and_ then _where will we be?"_

_He sighed a second time, looking down at her and she could tell that her words had reached him. Her expression softened and for a moment she closed her eyes at the soft brush of his lips as they whispered across her brow._

_"You need a husband," he said a moment later, almost teasing._

_"And you a wife," she countered, though as she suspected her would, he ignored her diversion._

_"Is there no one upon whom your favour falls, Celyn?"_

_This time his words were full serious, and melancholy. She shook her head, though her belly flipped to accompany the lie, even as her brother further expressed his concern._

_"But so long unpledged, nethen – I fear what fate awaits you."_

_"Ereinion," she made herself chuckle though she could see that her affected mirth did nothing to allay his fears, so let the sound of it die away into the softness of a sigh. "I am only now returned to the world after my exile. Would you have me throw myself into the arms of the first elf I meet that is not too close among our kin?"_

_As her tongue formed the question, her mind conjured the image as though before her eyes, tall, with hair as silver-blond as starlight, ice-blue eyes that pierced to the very soul of a matter and yet at once held the promise of_ so _much more._

_"I would have you happy, little one, not weighed by destiny as yet unknown," he said, and the image before her shattered into many pieces that lodged beneath her skin like welcome splinters._

_"The only destiny that weighs me, my King, is to carry the Line of Finarfin, an occult responsibility born of blood. Our mother and father had their reasons, we cannot know what mother saw before she passed from this world, but we must respect it, and be content in wake of her wisdom."_

_"And what do_ you _see, Celyndailiel?" he asked softly.  "What fate is it that yet remains over us– a crystal dagger waiting to fall?"_

_She shook her head, pushing against a sudden cold that began to close an unyielding fist around her lungs, a breathlessness creeping over her, and a veil, like a shroud to cloud her vision, yet beyond it a ring of fire, burning like some foul gaze in the darkness._

_"No," she told him sharply. "Do not ask me that, for you know I cannot say."_

_"It is not over then?" he said, "That reason by which our mother kept you hidden all these years has yet to come to pass?"_

_"Gil-Galad, you are High King, and the last of the line of Finarfin," she said in answer, voicing the deception that their mother had wrought, "that is what the world believes, that is the safety mother_ wished _the world to believe, and we will never know what reason moved her to hide herself away when she knew that I was to come after you. It grieves my heart that I never knew her in life. Please do not ask me to reveal what warnings she sends to me from beyond her death."_

_"Forgive me," he breathed, and drew her into a gentle, but tight embrace. "I know these years have been hard on you, and I have visited you only seldom."_

_"But_ I _know you are my brother; I love you, and I hold you not to blame for embracing your duty as I have embraced mine." She looked up at him, "We are at least together now, and for this time, let us rejoice in that, albeit we must obscure the reason."_

… She took a breath, the memory of her walk with Gil-Galad changing her mind about walking alone, if not calming her restlessness.  The air felt expectant – almost pregnant with some event yet to come, and it left her prickling with uncomfortable awareness that all she knew was about to change.

** ** **

Arriving at the head of the small hunting party, Thranduil tossed his rein to the groom, and dropped lightly from the saddle. His cloak brushed lightly over the new fall of leaves in the courtyard, and as if the sound of it hushed the bustle of the busy court, he felt eyes turn his way as he strode toward the doorway that led inside.

"Thranduil," He stopped mid-stride at the sound of his father's voice from behind him. "You are come late. What word from the woodland?"

He stiffened, not at what he father had said, but at the tone.  Oropher had been waiting for him. It meant he had some task for him yet – and likely one he would not have chosen willingly, but would obey none the less.

In the decades since they had travelled east across the Great River many an arduous task had fallen to him as to all of them that had followed his father. Granted, their settlement with the Sylvan elves had been quickly established due to his father's already existing friendship with the woodland folk, and, soon after, the clans had taken Oropher as their lord and king, recognising, perhaps, his kinship with Thingol, however distant and tenuous. It had been an uncomfortable transition for Thranduil, at first, for although nobility was in his blood, to consider himself a prince was as yet foreign to him.

"The woodland is at rest, Adar," he answered, and slowly turned to face his father, taking in his appearance at a glance. The robes his father wore reflected the style of their woodland subjects, simple and functional – their function at present to hide the fact that beneath, his father wore the crafted armour of his Sindarin origins – and yet elegant. Thranduil knew that his father was not yet at ease, did not yet trust that peace had truly fallen upon Middle Earth, or if it had it was but temporary yet. It was a sentiment that, in spite of the evidence to the contrary, he shared. "There is nothing in the Kingdom that should not be for many leagues around."

Oropher inclined his head in acknowledgement of his words.

"Good then," he answered and gesture to the doorway behind him. "Walk with me. Attend me."

Thranduil gave a polite bow to his father, and then moved in his direction, following the older elf in through the ornate doorway of the fortress.

"Something troubles you," he guessed once they were alone. Oropher handed him a folded piece of parchment even as he answered.

"We are summoned to a council," he said.

"Where?" Thranduil asked, shaking open the letter with a frown, and reading exclaimed, "Eregion? By whom?"

He scanned the letter to the bottom, seeing there the cause of his father's irritation.  The letter was signed by Celeborn and was a summons to all of the leaders and Elven lords that remained in Middle Earth.

"By what right and in whose name does he set such words and charge us all the appear at his behest," Oropher exploded, at last voicing his ire, and rounding on Thranduil as though _he_ had born the unwelcome tidings.  He flicked a hand out to tap the edge of the parchment, almost taking it from Thranduil's hand. "Does he think us all vassal lords to his great—?"

"Perhaps I should attend in your name – and to represent our Sylvan kin of Eryn Galen," Thranduil interrupted smoothly. He could not, at the time, explain why he had made the suggestion, for the journey was of many days, and would pass through territories now becoming settled by men – and therefore not entirely safe, but some impulse, drew the words from him.

"I am gratified to see we are of one mind in this," Oropher said, calm once more as they ascended the stair of the highest tower and emerged out onto the wide stone balcony atop it. As his father continued, Thranduil walked to the stone wall and leaned upon it, looking west. "It is in my mind, Ionen, that you should be the one to carry the voice of Greenwood's diplomacy between us, and others of our kin, for you are much alike to your mother in that regard."

Briefly, Thranduil looked back at his father at that, the mention of his mother drawing an ache from deep inside of him to settle in the frown upon his face.

"If such is your wish," he said after gazing long upon his father's face. "I will speak for Greenwood."

"It is my wish," his father said, and turning away from Thranduil started to return in the direction from which he had come. "Rest well this night. Needs be you must leave before first light in order to reach that peacock's court by the appointed hour, and I would not have you arrive late."

Thranduil turned back to gaze out across the tops of the trees, westerly and a little north, almost content to allow his father to leave without another word between them, but then the memory of soft words drifted through his awareness, and he could not hold his tongue against them, though he did not turn.

_Battle now, and you will spend your life in conflict and war.  Will you not spare yourself?_

"Is that why you send me from your sight?"

He heard his father's steps pause as he asked, and for a moment thought he might answer, but after a moment of silence, heavier than the falling night, the footsteps resumed, without a word passing his father's lips.

"But perhaps that is answer enough," he murmured, soft and melancholy into the gathering dark.

Fifty years, barely any time at all to settle the turmoil of the last several centuries, and now it seemed duty called again, without hope of reprieve.  Had his mother been right?  Had Maedhros…?

_"I warned you…"_

_Picking his way across the pitted field where remnants of countless battles had stained the once green grass a rusty brown, and unburied corpses lay, fodder for the ravens, filling the air with the putrid sweetness of corrupted flesh, Thranduil froze._

_The battle may have ended many weeks since, and all the refugees now safely at the new havens or already travelling West, but he had been among those to set out once more to ensure that the lingering and scattered hosts of Morgoth's army did not try to free their lord from justice at Eönwë's hand, and the hand of the Valar._

_…watch for the hand of the Valar…._

_Yet, there was another pressing concern among the war host of the Eldar, and to this task they had set their most trusted warriors… for in capturing Morgoth, the Maia had also in his possession the Silmarils that the Dark Lord had stolen, and that simple fact imperilled them all._

_The words once more pricked at his memory, and in response the phantom pain in his shoulder flared, biting and swift, the voice behind him as a dagger in his heart that still ached for so much wrong, done in the name of avarice, greed… pride._

_"I warned you," Maedhros said again, "that if we were ever to meet again with no debt of life for life to hold truce between us, I would kill you, Oropherion."_

_Slowly, his hands going to the hilts of his swords, Thranduil turned, his voice measured as he said, "Maedhros Fëanorion, you have no quarrel with me, nor with my family.  Leave now, and live."_

_He belied his own words with the sibilant hiss of his blades clearing their sheaths, and with the truth in his heart that there was indeed_ much _quarrel between them… for Doriath; for Dior and his queen; for Elwing and her sons, Elros and Elrond, and for his own mother – beloved and sorely missed._

_Not a moment before time, Thranduil raised his blades, as crying denial, Maedhros rushed at him, heavy sword leading. Sparks flew as Elven steel clashed at the parry of the wild attack, and Thranduil made a repost, missing his mark as Maedhros turned aside._

_Flowing like water, Thranduil followed the failed strike, half turning with Maedhros, keeping him within reach of his blades, and with an angry and embittered snarl, Maedhros answered, and the two Elves engaged in a battle that reached far beyond mere revenge or honour, but struck at the very heart of each of them._

_Thranduil knew better than to underestimate his opponent, though Maedhros was possessed of only a single arm. He remembered from their last encounter that Maedhros used underhanded tactics, and cruel strikes to compensate for his disadvantage, but even in spite of his caution, as the fight gathered momentum, Thranduil found himself facing increasingly dangerous attacks._

_He ducked beneath a wild, fierce thrust that Maedhros swung against his head, but the Fëanorian reversed direction almost at once and his studded wrist guard connected hard against the underside of Thranduil's chin. Such was the force that Thranduil flew backward, landed heavily against the rocky ground and was forced, immediately, to roll aside, barely a heartbeat before Maedhros' blade sliced the ground where he had lain, and sparks clawed at his cheek as the metal struck flint-bearing stone._

_Thranduil rolled again to his back and thrust up with his sword, forcing Maedhros to give ground, or to become impaled upon the sharpness of his blade, and in the time afforded to him he shifted his weight back toward his shoulders a little, then pushing hard, flipped to his feet. He followed his own momentum, lunging at Maedhros, who on his back foot could do nothing by give more ground, remaining on the defensive as Thranduil swept his sword from one side to the other, forcing him still further back._

_He should have expected a reversal of fortunes, for in the next moment Maedhros stepped up to meet his attacks, lashing out with his knee guard, kicking high. It was too late when Thranduil noticed the hidden blade, a short, narrow tongue of double edged steel, and he angled one of his swords down to try and parry the danger – too slow, and as he missed the steel slashed across his arm, slicing through the leather arm guard and cutting into the flesh beneath._

_Thranduil shifted his hands on the hilts of his swords to angle the pommel so that he could deflect Maedhros' repeated attempt at injury. This time Maedhros tried to drive the blade into his side. Thranduil lashed out hard, pushing back and, circling his offhand blade around his head, attempted a rapid, downward strike, which Maedhros parried at first, but Thranduil swept his primary blade upward, disrupting the parry, and allowing the second stroke of his offhand sword to breach Maedhros' guard, to cut a bloody line across the other Elf's breast._

_Maedhros' eyes flashed in anger, and roaring he lunged at Thranduil, sword leading, whirling as a dervish before the oncoming wall of rage that Maedhros had become.  Thranduil ducked, then turning bent backwards, almost parallel to the ground to keep beneath the whirling blade. Just as he felt his back would give way under the strain, a break in the deadly rhythm allowed Thranduil a sidestep, bringing him inside Maedhros' reach, and he grabbed the Elf's outstretched arm, but his opponent was ready, as if he knew that was Thranduil's intent, and wrapped a leg around his ankle, pulling him backwards, to spill them both to the ground._

_They hit hard, and Maedhros turned as they did, completing the roll to bring him up over Thranduil, driving all the air from Thranduil's lungs. Before he could recover, Maedhros, baying for savagery and murder, drove the barbed cross guard of his sword deep into Thranduil's shoulder, through the narrow gap between pauldron and breast plate._

_Thranduil's answering cry echoed off the nearby hills and cliffs and in reflex he twisted beneath the older Elf, swallowing the added pain as the barbs tore his shoulder.  Half blinded by the bite of the pain, he thrust upward with his open hand, catching Maedhros beneath his chin, pushing at his head, pushing back with all his strength until he could clasp the Elf's throat in trembling fingers…_

Absently, Thranduil ran a hand over his shoulder.  It was as if a madness had taken Maedhros, and madness indeed it was, for he had not known then, until far too late – as he knew now – that the elder son of Fëanor had in his possession one of the two Silmarils that had been stolen from Eönwë.

He let his gaze linger in the north western sky, uncertain of how he felt about returning to the place where – but for the grace of Eru – and the touch of fate… _watch for the hand of the Valar_ … it might well have ended differently than it did and he may not have lived to ride east, at his father's side, away from the grand affairs of his High Elven kin, though it seemed that those affairs had followed him yet. Was there no peace to be had in _any_ corner of Middle Earth?

The sky cleared as if upon his thought, and its silvering light kindle another memory, that he had believed long forgotten – the memory of a hooded figure, gentle in her countenance, moving among the needy and offering what comfort she might.

How many nights had he woken from Reverie in want of a touch from her hand?

** ** **

"I know there are many in further flung lands than these that will not like such a summons," Gil-Galad argued softly, turning to face the minor Sindarin Lord from among his counsellors. "What in the name of Iluvatar possessed him--?"

"He merely thought it wise – prudent and necessary, one might say, to—"

"To what?  Alienate half the Elven lords and nobles this side of Rhun?"

"If you're referring to Lord Oropher—" the counsellor said, evidently trying to ignore his obvious sarcasm.

"I'm referring to half the Elven lords and nobles that did not answer the Summons," Gil-Galad countered, his temper beginning to fray, until a gentle wash of energy, almost as a cooling balm washed over the unravelling edges, and turning his head, he saw his sister appear in the doorway.

"Lady Celyndailiel," he greeted her formally, however, and she in turn lowered herself into a respectful curtsey, before he continued, "Tell this strutting peacock the extent of the harm this… this… _missive_ will have wrought among the many Elven fiefdoms and kingdoms."

He held out his hand to her, and she slipped her fingers over the back of his hand, coming to his side, still without a word having passed her lips, and gave a nod of recognition to the counsellor as she came to a stop.

" _If_ you are referring to Lord Oropher," the counsellor began again, all but ignoring Celyn's presence at Gil-Galad's side, "then—"

"Then I believe you will find that since our Sylvan kin have accepted his rule in Greenwood the Great, he is _King_ Oropher now," Gil-Galad interrupted again, frowning slightly as Celyndailiel's fingers tightened, just slightly, upon his own.

"Celyn?" he asked softly, but she shook her head in denial of his query and instead addressed the counsellor.

"Whilst I understand why Lord Celeborn might have felt it necessary to call together the heads of all clans and kingdoms to ensure that whatever stewardship we might offer to Middle Earth, newly emerged from Shadow as it is," she took a breath, and raised a hand just as the counsellor opened his own lips to respond, to prevent his interruption, "I do believe an _invitation_ to gather together in open discussion, perhaps coming from court here at Lindon, rather than a _summons_ to a council at Harlindon might have been better received."

Then in a rare display, exercising her station she gestured toward Gil-Galad and continued, "But what is done, cannot easily be undone, and therefore I ask you, leave us.  The King requested my presence, and I am anxious to attend his wishes."

She fixed the counsellor with a meaningful gaze, which she did not lower even when the counsellor looked toward the king for confirmation, not until he bowed, and started toward the door did she let her gaze slip.  The counsellor swiftly closed the door behind him as he left.

"If I did not know better, Celyn, I would say that something is bothering you," Gil-Galad said.

She sighed.

"He would only have kept you talking round in circles for hours and nothing would get past his inability to see but right and good in all that Thingol's kinsman would have done. Pre empt this madness, Ereinion, send counter messages of your own and _invite_ the lords and kings to attend a celebration in honour of the season and the settlement of our many Elven lands.  It may not heal _all_ insult that Celeborn will have given with his letters, but _some_ ruffled feathers may be smoothed, even if your heralds meet the lords' parties travelling upon the road."

"Come _with_ me Celyn," he craved, even knowing what her answer would be.

"You know I cannot," she said. "Not and maintain the illusion of a distance between us.  Ereinion, I know that you will say you need my wisdom, but you have seen all that I have in this letter that Celeborn has sent.  You _have_ all the wisdom you need and _you,_ not _I,_ are ruler."

Gil-Galad sighed.  He knew she was right, but the more time he spent in his sister's company, the more worried he became for her safety in this unfolding future. He had tried to see behind what it was that troubled him… and tried to sense what it was that disquieted _her_ , but in either case had failed, short of asking outright of a suspicion he held.

He shook his head even as the words fell from his lips before he could stop them.

"It would not be the first time a king has attended such a meeting with a distant relative as his companion.  What – or _who_ is it you re trying to avoid, Celyn? Has some minor lord offended you or—"

"No," she answered quickly, and he narrowed his eyes, tipping his head, "No, it is not that. All that I have met since leaving the Nandor in the east and returning to your side have been _more_ than courteous; generous and kind."

"Then what…?" He frowned, "Celyndailiel, what have you foreseen?"

She shook her head.

"Shadows in the dark," she said. "Nothing more… and too distant to make sense, like… clouds on the horizon, the slow moving herald of a storm. There is nothing tangible. I would tell you if there were."

"I could order you to attend at my side," he tried, though without much sincerity.

"You could," she agreed, "but you will not… and I will welcome you upon your return, whatever the outcome of this council, Ereinion; whatever the lords believe in the wake of the Valar's salvation of Middle Earth from the yoke we wore at Morgoth's behest – remember those clouds… counsel a watchful peace – please."

At her words, a shiver passed over his spine, and in a rare display of brotherly affection, he drew her into a gentle, but tight embrace.

"Tiriathan i beth lín, muinthel."

** ** **

At the head of the small patrol, Thranduil reigned in his stallion, and raised a hand to halt the warriors at his back. Smoothly and silently, like leaves arrested mid fall from autumn trees, their movement ceased, allowing their lord and prince to gather himself as they crested the low mountain, coastline and the settlement of Harlindon came into view.

It was not, however, toward Harlindon that he turned his gaze, but further northward, to where – even now – the seemingly perpetual, dark smudge of cloud could be seen above the rise of low hills, clouds that were painted almost indelibly upon his memory… memory that had haunted him these several days since his father first told him he must take his place at the council…

_With his fingers tight around Maedhros' throat, he levered the other Elf off balance and Maedhros was forced to release his sword, to claw at Thranduil's wrist to free himself.  Thranduil fought to hold him long enough that he could free the barbed cross piece of Maedhros' sword from his shoulder, before pushing it – and Maedhros, to the side._

_Breathless himself, he rolled the other way, reaching for his one of his own fallen blades, fighting with his own weakness to gather his wits; to recover before Maedhros. Grasping his sword's hilt, Thranduil rolled and swung hard at his opponent, even as the other Elf began to climb to his feet._

_The jarring clash of metal on metal as the Maedhros parried the blow, angling his sword diagonally across his back to deflect the strike, passed down Thranduil's injured arm, numbing it still more. It happened faster than Thranduil hoped were possible and added the fuel of frustration to the burning fire of his anger, and gathering the strength of that anger, he pushed hard as he fought to get his feet under him, and snarling wordlessly he launched the Fëanorian away across the field._

_It afforded him only a brief respite, but enough to allow him the chance to climb to his feet and centre himself.  He began circling Maedhros, as the other Elf moved to keep him in sight.  It was a tense stand-off, and Thranduil knew it would not last. He shifted his blade to his un-injured left hand, and sidestepped round and around, waiting for the sign that would show him Maedhros was to attack, or retreat enough to encourage his own move against him._

_The moment came and Maedhros charged toward him, his sword already moving to strike.  Steel grated against steel high, low, then high again, first left then right, more quickly, as another burst of fury expanded within the crazed son of Fëanor._

_"You and yours sought to deny me… deny_ us! _" Maedhros spat between strikes._

_His sword swung wildly and Thranduil jumped back, leaned away, then spun back full circle, to come on again, driving his sword toward the Maedhros' throat.  Maedhros grinned mirthlessly, and raised the hilt of his sword to angle his own blade down, thrusting into the path of Thranduil's assay. The resulting collision sent a universe of sparks to spiral into the already waning day._

_"An assault to the very heart of our birthright!"_

_Blood ran in rivulets from Thranduil's injured shoulder, the ache spreading with it, down over his chest, along his arm.  At his wrist, blood pooled and then sprayed the air crimson with each move he made, yet undeterred, he came on once more, harrying his quarry with a series of quick, light thrusts, never serious enough for the need to be turned aside, yet licking ceaselessly at the Maedhros' defences, determined to break his resolve, and from the distance he thought he caught the frantic pounding of horses hooves._

_"You laid_ waste _to our honour!"_

_Maedhros concentration finally slipped, as the incoming riders drew closer, and as he mistimed his parry, Thranduil flicked the tip of his blade upward through the opening that remained, carving a slice upward on Maedhros' cheek, even as the cry of warning reached his ears._

_Maedhros mingled pain, outrage and unhinged, mocking glee sang into the red misted evening, in laughter that made colder yet the words of the warning._

_"Thranduil, gâr e i Silmaril… I Silmaril!"_

_As Maedhros' wild laughter faded, the red haired Elf leaped toward Thranduil again and Thranduil was forced to give ground, to angle his sword awkwardly to deflect Maedhros' furious assault, knowing that Gil-Galad, who had called the warning – and those he had no doubt brought with him – were not yet within range to assist._

_"Weak!" Maedhros mocked, turning his blade to strike from above Thranduil's injured shoulder._

_Thranduil met the attack and countered its descent toward him, circling his blade around the incoming, deadly slice.  Maedhros steel slid inexorably toward his own sword's forté.  Hilts clashed and locked together, and Thranduil rallied all his strength behind the effort to hold back the point of Maedhros' upwardly curving, barbed and sharpened quillion._

_"You sully yourself," Maedhros accused, nodding toward the incoming party of Elves, "with your associations."_

_Thranduil pushed harder against the locked blades, his arms straining, increasing the flow of blood to run like rain down over the front of his armour and pepper the narrow strip ground between their feet with red, mercurial balls._

_"You should have given them to us when you had the chance," Maedhros voice was sarcastic, suggestive, hungry, "Then you would still have your mother… the princess… the children."_

_Thranduil's answering roar redoubled his strength. He suddenly dipped his elbow beneath the locked hilts of the swords, pulling the vying blades across his own left shoulder. Drawing Maedhros closer, he drove his forehead into the other Elf's descending face, once and then again, until he heard the satisfying crunch of splintering bone._

_Maedhros snarled and pulled back, blade hilts unlocked and Thranduil stood for barely a moment, breathless with the ferocity of his anger, before moving in again.  Dark steel flashed in the gathering gloom, as wordless now, the fight resumed.  No tense circling, no tentative, testing strikes, blades clashed, and spark-spittle flew to light the dismal evening._

_To the left, blades hissed through treachery and deceit, to the right through honour and tradition, but between them, Thranduil knew, the ringing of steel on companion steel was nothing but the voice of death, singing out a desire for the taste of freedom at the hands of the victor. It was only a matter of time._

_Maedhros' sword swung upward and across, Thranduil parried swinging his blade to deflect the strike off to his left, but Maedhros stepped in, and before Thranduil could fully realise the error he had made, the ram of the Fëanorian's leg collided with the back of his right knee, and it buckled forward.  He stumbled and Maedhros reversed the direction of his sword-blade, and grasping the ricasso just below the hilt of the sword, and with a downward thrust, forced the point of his sword deep into Thranduil's shoulder from behind and twisted the blade._

_The agony was blinding, and for too-long a moment Thranduil faltered… his buckled knee connected with the ground as the Maedhros drove him down._

_On the threshold of defeat his thoughts turned to the journey his life had been: a ceaseless struggle through centuries of scheme and counter-scheme. Who could have foreseen where that tide would lead them?  Few; tremendous few, enlightened minds pierced the veil and for their thoughts were tested, sanctioned… murdered by the very kin they sought to save._

_"Maedhros," he gasped. "Why…?"_

_"Because we can."_

_The words were like a bell to him, ringing out the approach of the time all would lay down the grasp held on the strands of the future; pass their care into other hands than theirs._

_Approaching… but not yet now…_

_His cry of denial was that of a wounded beast, a great eagle rising up on tattered wings. He grasped the hilt of his sword and swung it up one-handed, gathering momentum in the swing to bring the full force of it across Maedhros' arm, slicing into sinew and flesh, and glancing off bone as the other Elf pulled away, snarling in torment as he straighten, and stumbled back… away… and Thranduil felt the breathy kiss of flight feathers stir the air beside his cheeks – he – on his knees before the spectre of a once proud and noble line of Elves – disempowered, ineffectual… lost…_

_Arrows struck Maedhros… driving him back… away._

_Even as Thranduil felt the raw, unfettered power of the sacred stone as Maedhros uncovered it – felt the shaking of the very Earth itself – the voice of Eönwë breeched the gathering magical power._

_"None with Evil in their heart may know the touch of the Light of Valinor and live, Maedhros… surrender!"_

_Thranduil knew in his heart that Maedhros would not heed such a command – felt the hatred Maedhros and his kin bore the Valar – understood…_

_He leaned forward again, breathless with pain, and reached over to grasp the Maedhros' blade, heedless of the edge that sliced his palm as he grasped the metal, still warmed from the friction of their fight, and mustering what remained of his resolve, crying out the agony of it, he drew the sword out from its fleshy sheath._

"My Lord Thranduil," Thranduil blinked as the captain softly called to him. "The hour grows late."

"Yes," he agreed softly, "Later than we believe and yet… not late enough."

"My Lord?"

He shook his head, pulling himself out of his melancholy. It would not do to meet the others in such a mood.

"Pay me no mind," he said, "We must reach the citadel before nightfall."

Without waiting for the captain's answer he put heel to horse and urged the mount forward, leading the army once more, turning his face away from the distant, unpleasant memories, until they were no more substantial than the dark clouds.

Once on the move again, the horses and the Elven warriors on foot seemed to devour the ground between them and their destination, and sooner than he would have thought possible, the sound of the hooves beneath him changed from a dull thud against loamy ground to the ring of steel horse-shoes upon paved roadways, and the outlying buildings loomed nearer still, aesthetic in their sculpting, and yet somehow oddly placed, an incongruity upon the landscape.

They passed between the outbuildings heading to the heart of the citadel, heads turning to watch as if curiosity as to their origins, comparison between what was known, and unknown lingered just beneath the surface of their feelings. Thranduil tried not to feel uncomfortable in that – having grown accustomed to – even having embraced – some aspects of his Sylvan kin.

Whatever he might have been feeling was driven from his mind as he brought his horse to a halt amid the bustle of the inner courtyard, grooms and stewards rushing in upon the small retinue from Greenwood the Great, though it was not that which so disturbed his already discomforted thoughts, but the voice that teetered on the polite edge of derision in its mode of greeting.

"Oropherion Thranduil, Ernil o Eryn Galen, mae govannen," Celeborn said, coming across the courtyard as Thranduil dismounted. The Elven lord pressed his right hand to his heart and dipped a shallow bow, before finishing, "We are honoured that your esteemed father entrusts us with so worthy an ambassador for his court."

Thranduil did not smile. As he pulled off his riding gloves, he regarded his kinsman with icy resolve.

"Galadhonion Celeborn, Ernil o Doriath, hîr o Harlindon nu Lindon," he said, his tone cool, reserved… _almost_ dismissive, and certainly with a bite of disapproval, in naming Celeborn's position as being _under_ Lindon, and thereby under Gil-Galad's rule. He offered no bow, and handed his gloves to the steward hovering at his side as he finished, "My thanks."

Celeborn tipped his head, a flash of mild irritation passing across his eyes which Thranduil watched him carefully school away.

"Come now, Thranduil," Celeborn coaxed, far more personal now than the formal greeting had been, "We were of a mind once, you and I.  Can we not, again, see eye to eye?"

If his comment had been meant to soothe Thranduil's rapidly unravelling temper, the words had the opposite effect as he remembered the meeting in which his counsel had matched with his Sindarin kinsman.

_"Prince Celeborn is right," he said, "We must first stand – united – against this most immediate threat, and only in defence, for so too my father speaks the truth, and we must stand ready to face the threat of Morgoth.  We in the Haven of Sirion stand as the last bastion of safety against his hordes, and whether we have the strength to hold or not, war is coming. We must face it and remain free, even unto death, or fall to the poison of the Great Enemy's ceaseless malice that was cast upon the world ere it was yet realised in the music that has grown faint to our ears."_

He took a step closer to Celeborn, lowering his voice so only he, and not the stewards and grooms still milling about them, might hear.

"My words held accord with you _only_ because I knew what avarice and folly threatened us, "he growled softly, "because I _understand._ I owe my loyalty to my father, and my fealty to our High King, anything that may appear otherwise is mere coincidence and of no import."

He twisted his shoulder so that it narrowly missed the other Elf as he then strode on. He did not get many more than a few steps further when from out of the bustle of activity a familiar figure all but tackled him into a tight hug of greeting.

"Thanduil!"

"Amroth!" He returned the hug, and then as if worried he was forgetting himself in his relief at such a friendly greeting he began to pull back and added, "My Pr—"

"Don't you _dare_ finish that honourific, Thranduil," Amroth reproached him, "Or are you forgetting that you too are now a Prince?"

He chuckled mirthlessly, and drawing back to look at his friend asked wryly, "How could I forget?"

He glanced briefly toward the now retreating figure of the Lord of Harlindon, and then shook his head.

"Ah, pay him no mind," Amroth said, "What did he want anyway?"

"To secure my support, I believe," Thranduil mused, "Or to at least turn me from supporting Gil-Galad."

"Oh, well easy done then," Amroth said, his voice at first teasing and then deadly serious as he added, "For you will support none but the wisest course for our future, whether that be by your father's will, by Gil-Galad's or none but your own."  He chuckled then, and clapping Thranduil on the shoulder, said, "Come, speaking of Ereinion, he too is anxious to welcome you, as is Elrond."

"Elrond?" Thranduil blinked at Amroth in surprise, "I had not expected he would be here."

"He is here," Amroth said softly, "And you will hardly recognise him, Thranduil.  Considered… learnéd… wise…"  He shook his head, "Say what you will of Maglor, but the twins did not _entirely_ suffer under his fosterage."

"He is of age now," Thranduil said as they walked toward one of the buildings that surrounded the inner court.

"And so like unto his mother, _and_ his father – the best of the both of them," Amroth said.

"Hiro hon hidh…" Thranduil whispered, missing the gentle counsel that had been Elwing's, and he could not help but think this farce of a council would not be happening were she still a part of Middle Earth.

"Do not yet grieve for them, my friend," Amoth said and opened the door for him, ushering him within. "For they more than live on in their son."

"You took your time," Gil-Galad said as he enfolded Thranduil in the warmth of his welcome. "I was beginning to fear that we would have to begin without you."

Thranduil shook his head, "Surely you jest.  Once my father knew of this…"

Gil-Galad chuckled, and glanced behind him, before releasing Thranduil and half turning to say, "You remember Elrond."

Amroth had told him that he would not recognise Elrond, but standing there, in that instant, it seemed to Thranduil that he knew the younger Elf far better than any he had ever met… _and will continue through the ages to do so…_ the thought surprised him, but not so much as when Elrond stepped forward.

"Excepting one, my Lord Thanduil," he said quietly as though Thranduil had voiced his thought aloud, and his voice was deep, and rich, and full of the wisdom of earth, and the soft peace of air. He had matured to an agelessness, and yet his face, and his eyes – like a grey clear evening sky lighted by stars – carried the echo, as if in the ripples of a tide, of that which Thranduil had heard in his voice.

"Prince Elrond," he greeted the young heir to the line of Thingol, and gave him a respectful bow, but Elrond lightly touched his shoulder.

"No, Lord Thranduil," he said, "For I left behind that title, and the responsibilities it bears, in my youth.  My fate lies in another direction from that expected at my birth – as always has yours."

** ** **

The footsteps were faint, and many others would have missed their coming, but Celyndailiel heard them and looked up from her embroidery, and her heart skipped, as a flat stone cast upon water, bouncing in her chest to leave her breathless and fighting for calm. She looked down to set her needlework aside. She had time yet, before her brother's guest would be upon her – an Elf that she had not seen for almost half a century, but knew she would never forget…

_What should have been a ride for pleasure had been seized by shadow and dragged toward fear as the herald had come, bearing tidings, and Eönwë's was upon a path of wrath for the Silmarils were gone, taken by the remaining Fëanorians, and when last they were seen, Maedhros at least was heading for the north-eastern foothills, where her brother's friend had gone searching for stragglers among the servants of Shadow to put them out of their misery._

_There was not time, nor manpower to see her safely back to the settlement.  Ereinion had simply grasped her horse by the bridle, and brought her with him and the guard. So it was she came to witness the anger and hate held within each moment of that deadly dance the warriors wrought._

_Arrows struck the red haired Elf… driving him back… away from the other, impaled and on his knees, whose back was toward them, then the Fëanorian reached with a bloodied hand into a pouch, took out a shining stone that pulsed with the raw, unfettered power of the sacred Light of Valinor as Maedhros uncovered it.  The horse whinnied and danced nervously beneath her as the Earth itself shook… opening a fissure as the uncontrolled magical energies of the Silmaril were released._

_"None with Evil in their heart may know the touch of the Light of Valinor and live, Maedhros… surrender!" Eönwë said._

_The injured elf leaned forward again, and Celyndailiel could all but feel his breathlessness and pain. She moved as though to dismount, in spite of the danger, but Ereinion reached over and caught her arm, preventing her from getting off her horse… and she had to watch, helpless – her eyes filling with tears as he grasped the blade of the sword on which he was impaled, and with a cry that shattered her resolve, drew it from his shoulder._

_Defying her brother, she tore herself from his grasp and dropped from the horse's back, gathering her skirts to all but fly across the space between them – feeling the waves of energy from the stone in Maedhros' fist around her almost pushing her back, but ignoring the danger, even of that, she all but fell to her knees in front of the stricken Elf, and caught him just as he would have toppled forward into the dirt. Her already aching heart reeled in recognition._

> _The voice was deep and rich, and though gentle, she had the thought that it would have carried, had such been his intent.  She blinked up at him, taken aback by the strength and beauty mingled in his face; the light that shone in his eyes, as if the reflection of the icy firmament was somehow alive in him, surrounding him, carried in the starlit strands of his white-blond hair._
> 
> _"My Lord," she called after him, softly, "Your cloak…"_
> 
> _He raised his free hand, the one that he did not guide the reins of his horse, as if the gesture were a shake of his head._
> 
> _'Keep it.'_
> 
> _She felt the whisper of his words within her mind as he moved further along the track, and she heard the gentle murmur of them also, carried on the light breeze, then as if an afterthought three more words reached her mind and her ears, and though the words were simple and practical, the weight of them seemed so much more._
> 
> _'…for the boy…'_

_One handed she tugged at her riding veil and pulled it from her hair, balling it up to press it to the wound, the pain of the pressure roused the Elf whose consciousness was fading.  She hushed and soothed him with the softness of her voice, and the warmth of her inherent light._

_"Nach beriad," she told him, "Le u-lavathan danno."_

_"Fall…? You will_ all _of you fall, for I bring down the curse of my father upon you!"_

_As Maedhros spoke another pulse of energy burst from the Silmaril in his hand and he cried out as the power of the stone began to sear the flesh from his bones. Still in his agony he clung to the jewel, and still holding the Elf – who was trembling now – against her, Celyndailiel turned her head and her eyes found Eönwë's as she implored, "Help him!"_

_"He is beyond help, my Lady," the Maia answered. "Even mine."_

_She held his eyes for a moment, then shook her head._

_"Damn you," she murmured, and with her free hand shifted her skirts around her as if to rise, jumping as a cold hand, slick with blood closed around her wrist._

_"No," The Elf she still supported rasped softly in warning, "You cannot…"_

_"He has suffered enough," she said, her voice deep, speaking with the true-sight of her mother, then to Maedhros repeated, "You have suffered enough, all your life long by way of this affliction, this curse wrought against necessity – words spoken in heat and given life in anger.  That is not the way… that is not_ our _way."_

_"You should listen to them, Lady," Maedhros said, but his voice had softened, as if some part of her words, or her presence had somehow touched him.  "I am beyond your aid, beyond_ all _aid."_

_"You only needs must set_ down _the stone," she told him, the tone of a mother speaking to a beloved child. "It is that which binds you in the dark…"_

_"I… I cannot, I…" Maedhros faltered, and behind her, Celyndailiel heard the hiss of steel being drawn, tried to cry out in warning, though to whom she was never afterward certain, before Maedhros' softening expression hardened once more, and turning, she saw her brother and his guards with bared steel advancing upon the suffering Fëanorian. At this, Maedhros roared, "I_ will _not!"_

_Eönwë's voice cracked like a whip to halt the advancing warriors._

_"No!  He will not be slain – he_ must _not be," and for a moment Celyndailiel believed that he had granted her silent plea for clemency for the Elf, until the Maia continued, "For soon enough, he and his brother, both, shall see the error of their ways."_

_"Dihenad!" she cried as she realised there would be no aid forthcoming for Maedhros._

_No one– save perhaps Mandos himself – would ever afterward know if it were that last, genuine sympathy, not pity, that was in her cry, that moved him, but with a wordless, echoing cry, Maedhros spun away, and moved with purpose toward the rift that had opened in the earth at the first burst of the Silmaril's unfettered power._

_She felt the Elf's trembling arms circle about her, and even against his own grievous hurt, he drew her head down to shield her face against his uninjured shoulder, as Maedhros cast himself into the fiery chasm._

_"Truly you are as the instrument of Iluvatar himself," he whispered as he held her._

"I think I have seen you here before?"

She looked up, startled at the apparently sudden appearance of the figure in front of her that jolted her out of the memory, for he had moved so quickly across the garden. As she remembered, he was tall, even for an Elf - Sindar, from the look of him, as she had been warned. This truly was the Oropher's son that she remembered, now the prince of the Woodland Realm that his father had established east of the Great River after the ending of the War of Wrath… but… how much did _he_ remember.

"My Lord, Prince," she greeted him and dipped a low, graceful curtsy, but found he caught her hand softly to raise her to her full height once more.

"No need," he answered softly, and her eyes met his, their ice-blue lights shining, dazzling in her sight.

She felt herself blush, but would not give in to it, instead she said softly, "Would you care to walk, my Lord?  The gardens here are very beautiful."

"I should like that," he agreed quietly, and shifted to offer her his arm. As she began to lead him further into the gardens, he said, "You have the advantage, my lady."

She swallowed, wishing she could have introduced herself to him more properly than to simply give him her chosen name alone.

"I am called Celyndailiel, my Lord Thranduil," she said softly.

"Thranduil," he corrected her lightly, and repeating himself said, "I need no honorifics here."

"Be iest lín."  She turned her head to give him a gentle smile. "I am glad that you have returned with—" she caught herself in time, "—the King, I think that he has missed your counsel.  Forgive me, I should not speak of such things as are the king's affairs."

"You may speak," he told her chuckling, "I do not think Gil-Galad would be offended to know that a lady such as you takes an interest in his affairs."

Celyndailiel blushed, and for the second time felt the chasing skip of her heart as she considered the Elf at her side, and worried, with growing dread that _his_ heart may already have been claimed – and though she was uncertain that she did not feel or see the touch of another soul upon his light… she was not certain.  Yet of herself she suddenly felt compelled to speak.

"You mistake me, my Lord Thranduil," she said, and telling only half the truth, the greater part of what she told him, a lie, said, "Though I am but distant kindred to the King it remains… too close an association for such an interest as you imply."

"Forgive me," he said at once, "I meant no offense."

"And I have taken none," she told him, shifting her hold upon his arm so that it became less courtly and more personal, slipping her hand between his arm and his side, and clasping both of her hands lightly at the crook of his elbow. "And you, my Lord, if I may be allowed to pry. Does some attendant heart await your return to Eryn Galen, or elsewhere, perhaps?"

She could not believe she had been so bold as to ask as forthright as she did.

"Do not fear, it is not prying, melhîril. There is…" he trailed off, and Celyndailiel's heart sank, until he said, "…but no…"

He turned his eyes her way, their clear, icy blue piercing to the very heart of her, shortening her breath even as she said, "You doubt she would return your regard?"

Holding her eyes as they walked, their pace slowing, he said, "There was a maiden that I met once… deep in Taur im Duinath… as we made our way eastward to this very haven. I gave into her care a foundling, and her gentle strength…" he trailed off, shaking his head but barely, still keeping her eyes captive with his, an _almost_ coy or playful spark within, as he brought them to a halt and turned to face her. "…I gave her my cloak, to warm the little one."

Celyndailiel's blush strengthened, and she barely whispered, "And when he had no more need of it…" she took a deep breath and confessed, "I believe the Lady still has the cloak you gave her…. Thranduil…"

He took her hands in his, and held them tenderly, tucked between them both, as he answered her.

"…Celyndailiel…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hanaren – my brother
> 
> Nethen – my sister
> 
> Adar – father
> 
> Tiriathan i beth lín, muinthel – I will heed your words, sister.
> 
> Ernil o Eryn Galen – Prince of Greenwood the Great
> 
> mae govannen – well met
> 
> Ernil o Doriath – prince of Doriath
> 
> hîr o Harlindon nu Lindon – lord of Harlindon under Lindon
> 
> Hiro hon hidh – may they find peace [lit: find they peace]
> 
> Nach beriad – you are safe [lit: You are protected]
> 
> Le u-lavathan danno – I will not let you fall. [lit: You I will not allow to fall]
> 
> Dihenad! – Mercy! [Lit: Forgiveness]
> 
> Be iest lín – as you wish
> 
> Melhîril – dear lady
> 
> The quotation at the head of the chapter is, as close as possible, what Thranduil says to Celyndailiel as he shields her from watching Maedhros commit suicide.


	14. Riniath o Nin

 

Third Age of Middle Earth – 2840

_Istan han eneth_

 

In the end, Elrond had his way, and Thranduil did not depart for Greenwood until morning.  It was a day that dawned with a pale and sickly amber, as if the sun never truly rose high enough to make her passage across the sky, and as swift as the Elven horses were, a sense of deep and foreboding urgency burned in Thranduil's blood, and to his mind – and his heart – they were still not swift enough.

They rode without pause, slowing the horses to a gentler pace to provide periods of respite, for they would not press the horses beyond endurance. As they rode, Thranduil ran everything he had learned through his mind, examined his feelings; mixed of a kind of trepidation, and hopeful elation.

Yet… Arwen's vision troubled him, and his own experience on coming into contact with Celyn's ring. To have fallen – no, he corrected his thinking – to have been drawn to the very threshold of the Halls of Waiting was an unwelcome conundrum, of which he could make little sense.  Couple that with the clear, cold voice he had heard, telling him – or perhaps telling another, he mused – that there had been a warning given, though as to what he did not know, and the less threatening voice that told him that Celyn was calling to him from the depth of her peril, and Thranduil was more than a little concerned and no less confused.

All through the second day, and into the early evening, Thranduil suffered the discomfort of a growing sense of foreboding, a feeling that pierced like an arrow as the cries went up from those on point, and everyone halted, hands flying to the hilts of blades and the curves of bow alike.

"Rider!"

He narrowed his eyes, looking ahead to the incoming speck that gradually resolved into a message rider of Greenwood, and once he was close enough to the outriders, he called out.

"I deithad ni Daur mín!"

Thranduil waved ascent to the nearest of the outriders, to grant the Elven messenger to ride closer.

The messenger bowed in the saddle, bending from the waist, his hand over his heart, and Thranduil tried to be patient with the Elf while he completed the genuflection, but his heart pounded in an increase of worry. Why would a messenger come from Greenwood, unless there was something…? The messenger began to straighten up, derailing Thranduil's train of thought.

"Speak," he commanded, once he had, trying to keep his voice clear of the worry he felt.

"My lord," the messenger began, "Prince Legolas instructed you be informed at once of an accident. The Lady Nieniriathlim—"

He got no further, before Thranduil shot out his hand to grasp the horse by the bridle, drawing the Elf atop the horse closer, staring into his startled brown eyes as though he meant to pull the truth from the depth of his soul.

"Accident?" he demanded.  "What happened?"

"She… she… fell, My Lord, into the water," the unnerved messenger said, "The pool beneath the Silver Falls."

Thranduil frowned.

"What was she doing there?" he demanded, almost as if the messenger were to blame, then before the Elf could answer, the king waved a hand to prevent it and continued urgently, "Ride with me.  Tell me everything."

He was about to put heel to horse, to continue swiftly onward toward Greenwood, when the messenger answered, "My Lord, there is little more that I _can_ tell you, save that your son believed that some… strange force was in action upon the lady, pulling her down."

Thranduil's hand snapped from its position at the horse's bridle to grasp the messenger by the collar, almost unseating him, as he hissed, "Did she survive?"

"My Lord—"

"Tell me that she lives!"

Even as he spoke Thranduil caught the eldritch glow of inner fire from within the ring upon his finger, where his hand had fisted around the fabric of his messenger's shirt.

"She lives…!" the messenger answered, alarmed, "my Lord… she lives, but in some kind of… twilight world.  Neither wakeful, nor in dream but caught part way between the two."

Thranduil's alarm at first receded and then redoubled at the news, and releasing the messenger, laid hand to the bridle of his horse again and almost physically turned it in the direction of Rivendell.

"Continue on to Imladris," he first instructed the messenger, "repeat what you have told me to Lord Elrond, and if he has lore or wisdom that will bring aid, crave it of him in my name. Go!"

Then he took up his own reins ready to ride… and ride hard, calling to his escort as he did, "Nerim! Noro lim an Thaur-nu-Fuin."

** ** **

Three days overdue, and no sign of the patrol on any of the assigned routes within the kingdom's borders, Tauriel raised a hand, to halt the small party of five Elves at her back, and swung down from the bough of the tree to examine the ground beneath.

Her heart misgave her, as she knew that on the orders of the King for vigilance above all else, _she_ had sent out the patrol to investigate the section of the woodland beyond their borders, from when the Lady Nieniriathlim said she came. In part she felt responsible for their fate.

She started, and her hand twitched to the hilt of a blade as one of her watch dropped down beside her.

"What do you see, Tauriel?" he asked softly.  "If there is nothing, we should not linger here."

"If there is nothing," she countered, barely turning her head to him as she spoke, her words clipped, her tone full of worry, "then it means that much has befallen our brothers, and we _must_ discover what has become of them."

The Elf, older than she, though a subordinate, shook his head and laid his hand to rest on her shoulder.

"We are too few," he warned, "and the woodland here is in even more disquiet than always."

"I _will not_ abandon them."

She forced the words through clenched teeth, for her Elven companion had a point, and a good one – that they were too few to take on but the smallest of disturbances within the forest, and such a disturbance was rare in these days of increasing troubles.

As if the very fates themselves had heard her thoughts, the air filled with the crackling tension, presage to the outburst of violence that followed.  Leaves trembled, a silent hiss against the intrusion as at least a half dozen thick, black fletched arrows pierced the once hallowed space beneath the boughs of Greenwood. Heavy, they carried the weight of ancient animosity; the gravity of perversion, and before Tauriel could react, a dark agony lanced through her shoulder and the upper left side of her chest.  With a deep cry she felt backward until momentum failed, to fall hard against the packed loam of already fallen leaves.

"Yrch!"

The cry of alarm from the sentry above split the ensuing, horrified moment of silence, and half conscious, Tauriel felt the strong arm of her companion wrap around her waist and lift her against his chest, as the four other Elves dropped from the boughs above, bows drawn at the ready.

"There are too many of them!" The same sentry as had given the cry informed her companion. "We must retreat."

"No," she gasped, struggling to gain her feet, free herself from the restraining support of her companion. "We must—"

He lieutenant cut her off, tightening his arm around her waist and giving command in a sudden, hard spoken tone.

"Advado!" he commanded. "Dan idh rynd!"

"No," Tauriel struggled, even knowing his command was right and just as the shadows of the Orcs began to resolve into figures rushing through the trees before them, too many… too fast.  "No, I told you--!"

"Would you abandon your _life?_ " he hissed into her ear, already lifting her, and under cover of the Elvish arrows, turned and half carried her into the cover of the thicker trees.

** ** **

"My Lord…"

For reasons he could not understand, but following an intuition he dare not disobey, in spite of the need for haste, Thranduil had led them up beyond the Elven road to take the longer, less direct path into the forest, further north, that would lead them back to his Halls along the same road he travelled when he seen the first tidings of Celyn's spirit in the forest.

Some small way in they had seen the first signs of disquiet, and there, drawn to a halt by the side of a scorched, ruined stand of young beech trees, Thranduil seethed, as his guardsman handed up a scrap of material, obviously torn from the cloak of one of Greenwood's patrols.

"Show me!" he commanded, and with fluid grace, swung his long leg over the horse's back and dropped soundlessly to the leaf covered ground.

The guardsman bowed his head and then turned to lead the way to where he had found the material, and Thranduil followed.  As he did, he noticed the ever more greatly disturbed foliage, small twigs bent and twisted; older, yet still slender branches – still living wood – snapped and broken back, the fleshy white within exposing the descending sap, life streaming from the tear in the forest's skin.

A few steps further, and he reached out a hand to stay the guardsman, pushing past him, and reaching to unsheathe one of his blades, reaching forward with the other hand to gently guide aside the branches that were in his path.

The vista beyond, the small clearing into which he stepped, was a bloodied mess, slaughter and ruin of both tree and Elf littered the ground. So painful was the sight to look upon that for a moment, Thranduil turned his head aside, and drew in a breath that reeked of blood and fear… and death.

He raised his head again to look upon the sight of his murdered subjects, long deep gashes rent their flesh as they lay upon the ground, the leaves around stained with their blood, their eyes open and staring – horrified expressions caught between pain and anger, as was now his own, recognising the fell work of Orcs by the droplets of darker blood amid the deep red of the Elves, and the black shafted arrows that injured and splintered the trees.

Behind him the men of his patrol came through the trees, their steps faltering and they came to a halt, just within the periphery of his vision.  Thranduil saw the dismay set about their own faces that he too felt, and the loss.  He lowered himself beside the closest of the dead Elves, and with a brush of his fingers, closed the tortured eyes that stared upward, beyond seeing now.

"See to it that their bodies are returned to Lasgalen Halls and afforded every respect due to them for their service," he said, a tone almost of confusion in his voice as he gave the order, before he rose to his feet once more, as his guardsmen began to move to obey. "The Orcs that did this will pay for the lives they have taken… with their own."

He took one further, lingering look upon the fallen of his people, and then spun on his heels, ordering harshly, "Hunt them down!"

** ** **

The weight of night lingered long into the day.  Her limbs ached, her body trembled with a fever she could not break, not even with the aid of the best of Lasgalen's healers. Visions assailed her, one after the next, faster than the rushing waters of the Anduin in flood, and all of them dark and full of pain, and fear, and loss – incomplete and fading in and out of focus.

_She came from her rest, intending to make for the tent wherein some of the most fiercely wounded - men and Elves alike - clung to life, when she heard the first of the whispers.  Just risen, and dressed in a plain sliver-grey gown, her hair still unbraided - she would bind it as she went - as she hurried across the uneven ground between the pavilions and the more utilitarian tents, the whispers became mutters... and the mutters reached her ears and filled her with a cold dread._

_'The king is dead...'_

_In spite of herself she began looking around for those newly arrived from the field - pushing past many... worried for him._

_'...the king is dead...' murmured in a horrified reverence from the lips of many Elves.  She caught the arm of one, and in spite of her own fear, catching sight of his wounds, slipped her arm around his waist and began to lead him through the mud, stumbling on toward the hospital tent, a smear of his blood falling unheeded against the waist and fall of her skirt._

_"You are safe now," she promised him softly._

_"Hanon le, Hiril nín," he barely whispered, and before she could tell him no thanks were necessary, a sudden shout made her jump, and she turned her head to see four heavily armoured Elves hurrying her way._

_"Lady Celyndailiel!" they called as they came, and turning to hand the care of the Elf she walked beside to the hands of a fellow healer, she clasped her fingers in front of her and turned fearfully to face the guards._

_"Please," she fought not to give in to the tears that were already gathering behind her eyes.  "The king…"_

_"You must come with us," the senior of the guardsmen said, urgently, "It is Princ-- King Thranduil."_

_She paled, and might have fallen into a faint had not she forced herself to remain strong, stoic as she gripped the guardsman's arm and asked, "What has happened?" even as the whispered words of horror recalled themselves to her mind. ...the king is dead..._

The vision swirled, was it another place… another time… Unfamiliar walls rose around her… a courtyard, and an archway leading in.

_"Stay back, my lady," She knew the speaker, could not name him, but she knew he was second only to the king himself. His voice trailed off as he added, "You cannot…"_

_She had already ceased to hear him.  Movement beyond him drew her eye away, and she watched in mounting horror as a litter carried between four armoured Elves passed beneath the arch and into the courtyard, and on the litter, a figure, motionless – dim in her sight – lay covered and yet, peeking from beneath the shrouding cloak, she recognised the tooling on the armour, and the dread she carried heavily within her struck like a viper, swift and full of poison._

_She cried out wordlessly, and felt the arms of the king's second wrap around her waist, lifting her from the ground before she even realised she had moved again, and she fought to escape his restraint._

_"He lives," the Elven warrior told her, his words gasped with the effort of restraining her. "Though barely."_

_"Let me go!" she demanded, and breaking suddenly free, let out another, inarticulate cry as she flew the distance between them, to her husband's side._

_She fell to her knees beside the litter, feeling his failing life as the absence she had faced as she had reached for his mind.  She drew back the cloak with which they had covered him and recoiled, letting go a third, most wretched cry as she saw the ruin that was left of him.  Clear half of his body was scorched and mangled – his arm and hip, his leg and torso a bloody ragged mess, and above his mangled shoulder, the burned remnants of his once beautiful face seeped blood and matter onto the cloak on which he lay._

_"Arasfain!" she cried, slipping her hand into his right, and squeezing its lifelessness. "Thranduil! My heart!"_

She gasped awake, the vision already fading, though the feeling did not… of need, of fear… of hopelessness, and from beyond the halls she heard the cry of a horn splitting the gathering evening that set her heart racing, pounding with dread.

Nieniriathlim tried to rise, body trembling with the effort, only to find herself restrained by the gentle but strong arms of the Elf at her side.

"Slowly, my lady," the healer implored her. "You are but lately woken from your stupor. Give yourself time."

"I must… see him," she gasped, "Go to him… I must see my hu—"

She faltered, as the words she had been about to say disappeared like smoke, and she looked at the healer, uncertain, falling back against the pillows, her eyes filling with tears.  So much she did not understand.  So much she felt but could not reach.

"The king!  The king is coming," an excited – almost distressed lady's maid put her head around the door of the room, mere seconds before King Thranduil swept through the stone arch.  The master healer handed off restraint of her and moved to intercept the king, to speak with him, and though Nieniriathlim could not hear their words, she heard the tones of his voice.

Yet, she felt him – across the distance, as if he were a vast fire warming the chill from her spirit, from her bones – starlight on the darkest night.  She closed her eyes and after a moment felt the healer that had restrained her move away, and then the side of the bed on which she lay barely shifted and her eyes fluttered open again to find he had settled beside her.  She looked up at him, to find his eyes.

"You came home," she breathed, and she watched as an expression – one full of a kind of pain that seemed to her to be sweet, almost welcome – came to grace his face.

He raised his hand, and she almost held her breath until his fingertips barely brushed against her cheek as he lifted away an errant strand of her hair that had escaped its braid. At the touch her heart sped, a hail of bubbles popping in her chest and the breath rushed from her, so that she barely heard his soft spoken words.

"Of course," he answered softly, and his eyes found hers, liquid ice that captivated her. "You did not think I would stay away forever, Nienanín?"

She felt the spots of colour burn in her cheeks at his use of the diminutive, managing to draw breath before he smiled faintly, but with an underlying warning that was echoed in his tone and he asked further, "Tell me what happened; how such an... accident came to pass."

** ** **

He swept in on Legolas as his son was changing from courtly robes into the armour he would wear leading the patrol into the woodland in hunt of the Orcs that had fled Thranduil's own recent battle after his discovery of the murdered patrol on his return from Imladris.

"One thing," he snapped before he had even crossed the threshold of the doorway.  "I ask you to do _one_ thing, and I return to find your charge lying, half alive in the Hall of Healing! Tell me what happened!"

Legolas looked up, pausing in fastening the buckles of his wrist guards, and then began to turn away, a sour expression coming to his face.

"Perhaps if you had been honest with me in the first place…" he began, his voice laced with a mixed of guilt and anger, each warring for full expression as he spoke.

"What is _that_ supposed to mean!"

The challenge came out more harshly than it might, his own guilt, _long_ held for all the things he had… and had _not_ told his son rising like a riptide to drag him down into a coldness that infused his own angry fear at almost having lost his returning love even before they had become known to one another.  He reached out to catch Legolas' arm, both to prevent him from turning away, and to aid in the buckling of the bracers, but his son snatched his arm away, and moved to put new space between them, and he froze as if Legolas had drawn steel against him.

"You believe—" Legolas' back was still to him as he began to answer the question, continuing to dress for the patrol, but clearly his son had rejected the assistance he wanted to give.  He had not intended to challenge Legolas in anger; had wanted to know only what had happened, to know his son's understanding of what had occurred, but his fear of losing Nieniriathlim – his Celyndailiel – had proved too strong for him to ignore.

"I believe I asked you for an explanation," he cut in, his voice clipped and laced with sarcasm.

Legolas turned back to face him, and as if he had not just repeated his demand for answers, said, "You believe this woman has some kind of connection with my mother.  Does she know something? Know where she fell… and how?"

Thranduil's left hand fisted so tightly that his whole arm ached as Legolas confronted him with the lie he had long maintained – a cover for his own despairing guilt – that she had been lost in battle at the gates of Angmar near Mount Gundabad, not that she had given her own life in saving _his_ after his encounters there _._

"I have told you," he hissed, his voice barely louder than the passage of a blown leaf across a marble floor. "I _will_ not speak of your mother's end."

"Why?" Legolas demanded, his own pain evident in every inflection of voice, and expression of face and body together. "Am I not her son?  Do I not deserve to know the truth, to _share_ whatever hope it is you harbour in your heart?"

"It is enough that she was lost," he murmured, drawing down the ever present shield over himself, pushing away the pain; the added pain of knowing that he dare not trust even his own _son_ with the knowledge he now held.

"No!" Legolas countered, snatching up his blades and thrusting them home into their sheathes at his back, before picking up his bow and quiver, holding them in one hand, gesturing with them toward his father. "It is _not_ enough, it is _never_ enough.  Must you _always_ be so consumed by that loss that you forget that others than yourself loved her?  Must you forget your _own_ love for her?"

The breath left him, and he could not draw breath anew. His son's accusations cut him to the quick.  _Ai, ion nín, sui istannech!_ He could not speak.

"That is what I thought," said Legolas, his voice full of cold disappointment, and laying his quiver and bow against Thranduil's chest as though he could not bear even to touch him Legolas used them as a lever to push him aside.

He turned his head to watch as his son departed, his heart aching to connect with the Elf he had become, wanting so much for Legolas to know how much _he_ loved him… how much Celyn had done so.  He drew breath to speak, but Legolas paused in the doorway, and spoke before he could.

"I take my leave of you, my King, and will not return until your questions are answered.  Whether in this life, or beyond."

Then with a bow he was gone, leaving Thranduil, once more, alone.

** ** **

Almost three days she spent under the care of the healers before they would permit her to rise, before they dismissed her from their care; days of frustration. She longed to return to the Solar – for she had dreamed so much in the time between King Thranduil's return, and her release, and she knew she would find no true peace unless she had the answer to a question that had begun to haunt her: what lay beneath the sheet – what _was_ the last piece of furniture that remained uncovered by her stewards in that room.

She rose and dressed telling her maids that she wished to take luncheon in the Solar, where she might feel the breezes and the sun without the chill of the garden, and all but trembling in expectation, made her way to the room that had – by her cursory examination – remained untouched since her accident.

She shivered, and almost lost the nerve to do as she intended, barely running her fingers over the softness of the sheet that covered the unknown piece of furniture. She felt the magic against her fingertips, and hurriedly lifted her hand again, retreating to the low chaise, to sit… where she remained, staring almost fearfully at the space she had left as if it were occupied by a ghost, until they brought in the luncheon, and set it on the table before her, disturbing her trembling emotion.

Then she moved, stood, reached out and tense with expectation lifted the corner of the sheet, and grasping her courage gripped it more tightly to draw it back at last.

She gasped at what she saw.

The finest silk lay beneath, covered with tiny delicate stitches that formed the outline of a view that became in that instant, suddenly familiar to her as she grasped the sheet and all but snatched at the rest of it away, revealing the whole of the silk to her eyes, before rushing to the balcony, and turning slightly to bring to view the bower in the garden, similar though not the same one; the bower here, overgrown now, modelled after the first. A warmth ran through her in ways she had not felt before that left her legs weak, and her body tingling – remembering that it was in that leafy bed she had shared the first night of her life as—

The thought broke to fragments like a wave against the shore, and tears of need and frustration stung her eyes, the image of the beautiful bower locked within her mind, her heart filled with bubbling anticipation, her senses full of the sights, and scents of the evening the vision had revealed.  She made her way inside, and forgetting luncheon entirely sat for many hours staring at the exquisite tapestry in progress, her mind transferring her sight to the empty silk, and before she even realised what she was doing, her hand reached for the tray of silken threads that perched beneath the angled embroidery, and selecting one, and a fine needle, she threaded it, and with practised, perfect stitches - even though she knew she had never really done such fine stitchery in her life - her hands fell to the familiar and calming back and forth of the stitching, her mind wandering as she began to fill in the space in the corner, her stitches weaving leaf and flower and the colour of the soft silken blankets on which she had lain and loved...

...before...

Focused on the in and out pull of the needle in her hand, and the vision so clear in her sight - the heat of emotions, so foreign and yet so welcome to her coursing through her veins, in her every breath, Nieniriathlim failed to hear the quiet steps approach the doorway of the room, so not until the King's voice caressed the silence of the room did Nieniriathlim realise she was no longer alone.

"Do you often take up the arts of those with whom you stay, and see fit to finish their work?"

She started, and pieced the side of her slender finger with the needle, hissing at the sting, but somehow maintained the presence of mind to secure the needle into the scrap of waste silk at the side of the frame, before she all but leaped from the stool on which she sat, and spun to face the king, in the same moment lowering herself into a breathless curtsy.

"My Lord," she greeted him, peeking up at him through lowered lashes, she stammered softly, "Forgive me... I... The image... it was all I could see, and feel, I..."

She trailed off, blushing deeply as he stepped closer and took her hand in his, ran his fingertips along the side of hers, where she had caught her skin with the needle, and where now a single, bright drop of blood stood raised – then banished at his healing touch. She drew breath, but her wonderment was interrupted by his following words.

"It is I should ask you for forgiveness," he told her softly, still holding her hand, embraced between his own and cradled against his chest, and though she felt the right of it, wanted the closeness greater than any other want in all the world, she could not help but feel confusion at it. "This place, and the things with in it are yours to do with as you see fit, but tell me," he released her hand with one of his, which he lay upon her shoulder as he turned them both to look down on the embroidered silk, the both of them gazing upon the image slowly resolving itself - not unlike her memories of their time together.  The thought struck her suddenly that it was true, they _had_ shared such a time, in such a way as she imagined… and blushing most fiercely of all, she all but forced herself not to let the tension of that thought infuse her.

Even so, she shivered as he had leaned down to murmur against the shell of her delicately pointed ear, "What is it that you see that so inspires you to craft such beauty?"

"I… it is... there is so much emotion, my Lord. Feelings call to me, to a part of me that..." she trailed off, how did she explain? For a moment she held her breath as she lifted her eyes to find his, then, taking a deeper breath to calm herself enough to listen to the words behind the feelings that were still hot inside of her, added softly, "It is not the beauty of the place alone, but the perfection of the moments spent there that bring to mind a... different kind of perfection, of becoming whole..."

By themselves, the words did not make sense, but she did not stop herself, in spite of any fear of what he might suddenly think of her.

"...of a moment kept alive down through eternity and beyond even ruin and death, to bring the sense of everything it meant back to one in whom it means so much."

She blinked then, as if awakening. Her blush deepened and she had to half turn away, embarrassed to have been so forward, so revealing to the king. She came to an almost abrupt halt as he did not let go of her hand.

"Do not be afraid to feel such things," he said, his voice soft, and he seemed affected by something, though by what, she dare not imagine.  The instant passed, and she almost started as he released her hand and from the corner of her eye she saw him move to stand at the balcony his back still to her. "Perhaps, if it is your wish, we can take lunch together here each day – come to… know one another better."

"I should like that, My Lord Thranduil," she said, her voice quiet and low, Only then did she allow herself to turn her gaze to him full on, trying to steady herself, though words came once more unbidden from her lips. "If such is your pleasure, perhaps you would remain a while now? Your presence has been... much absent from my heart, yet much noticed in my concern as you travelled."

_...I have missed you..._

The words whispered around her mind, and as he turned to face her, her eyes found his and lingered there. The will behind her words almost trembled in the air between them.  In another life, another age, she felt she might have crossed the room to take his hands and draw him to sit by her, the sheer joy of being together with him infusing her every thought and action, and a part of her still stood upon that threshold, the need to act itching within her like a newly healing wound. Yet the fear of it still gripped her and she remained still.

Another moment passed before he moved. A faint smile touched the corner of his lips, and he walked around her, his robes sweeping as he moved to the chaise beside which the food had been laid.

"I am always safe in the company of Elrond, fear not," he said.  "Come, sit by me."

Nieniriathlim followed his movement with her eyes as he circled her, keeping him within sight as though he were some predator, magnificent but dangerous. She saw in his eyes the beckoning, and she could do naught but follow.

The name he mentioned resonated within her, and a brief frown answered his near smile.

_...I know that name..._

Then she swallowed hard, as with serpentine grace he sank onto the chaise, motioning for her to join him, and she watched him look for a moment out into the gardens, as she had spent many hours doing so in his absence. With caution, and barely space between them as to allow for propriety, she sat, unaware of how near she had unconsciously moved. Something within her trembled close to realisation, like a breeze over the surface of still, deep waters.

"Home," she barely breathed the word in answer to the question he had not asked, yet she sensed remained unspoken in his mind, as if in staring into the garden, he asked her to name what it was that had drawn her there. "As if a part of me came to life and woke some... sweet ache within me." She dared to take a breath, but it was shallow, and left her strangely fluttering inside. "And there are memories there...whispers of the mind and heart... and body."

Another moment teetered between them, and she saw him clasp his hands a moment as though to stop himself from reaching for her.  Their eyes locked, she felt the tug of war within herself momentarily increase, until she almost could not bear it, and then like a wave upon the shore, his smile broadened, the hard edge in his eyes dissolved into a delighted spray of starlight, and she saw the tension in him leave his body as he finally reached to cover her hand where she gripped the edge of the chaise on which she was perched.  The warmth in the touch was comforting – familiar… welcome.

"Be at ease," he said, gently, then he leaned back on the chaise like a lazy panther.  "Eat. Tell me about yourself."

Nieniriathlim could not help the blush that came to her cheeks as she watched him; as he did little to dispel her image of him as some great cat, and she a small gazelle within his grasp; played with at his will. Without guile, or knowing what it was she did, she half turned toward him, and drawing up her delicate bare feet beside her - for she preferred to walk unhindered even by the soft, silk slippers she had been given to wear within the solar and the garden below them - she all but curled up at his side, leaning on her arm against the low back of the chaise.

"Truly, there is little to tell, my lord…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I deithad ni Daur mín! – A message for our King!
> 
> Nerim! – We ride!
> 
> Noro lim an Thaur-nu-Fuin – Ride hard for Mirkwood. [lit: Forest under nightshade]
> 
> Yrch – Orcs
> 
> Advado! – Retreat! [lit: Go back!]
> 
> Dan idh rynd – fall back to the halls
> 
> Ai, ion nín, sui istannech! – Oh, my son, if only you knew. [Lit: Oh, my son, like as you had knowledge of [it]]
> 
> The quotation at the head of the chapter reflects the awakening memories that are beginning to come to Nieniriathlim. Istan han eneth – I know that name.


	15. Arasfain

Second Age of Middle Earth - 112

 

_Gûreg i beth i pent._

The horse reared, almost screaming a warning, and acting purely on instinct, Thranduil released the reins, and as he freed his feet from the stirrups, pushed himself backwards, turning full circle in the air.  He drew both blades as though they were an extention of his arms – natural, meant to be there, and landed on his feet in a crouch, head raised, searching for what had spooked his mount to such an extent. He was ready; his senses opened to the woodland around him.

"U-bardh… dan ui, mathan le…" he whispered, head half cocked – listening.

The leaves rustled in answer, and as if they had hushed the world around him, the sound of the hunt in which he was participating faded to a distant flicker in his awareness. In the next moment, through the tips of his fingers that rested on the ground, he felt – as well as he heard the sound – the slow drum of approaching hoofbeats; softly thudding against the deep loam of the forest floor. He felt his heart slow, becoming one with the sound.

The stag that stepped from the depth of the foliage stood easily as tall as Thranduil himself, made taller yet by the full seven tines that crowned its brow. Whiter than starlight, with eyes of the most piercing blue – clearer than a summer sky, yet burning with a fierce intent hotter than the very fires at the heart of Middle Earth itself – it paused for barely the length of a single slowed heartbeat. It was little enough time, but Thranduil raised himself to his feet, keeping his eyes fixed on those of the White Hart.

Then it moved, taking step by careful step across the clearing toward him. He gave ground, moving equally as cautiously backward, until he could go no further, his shoulders connecting with the bark of the broad beech tree at his back.  He lowered his blades, and as he did, the Hart came to a halt, so close that Thranduil could feel the heat of its breath warming the leather of his armour.

For a moment there was stillness, then the White Hart pawed at the ground by Thranduil's feet, before lowering its head, caging him against the tree with the massive spread of its antlers.  He held his breath.

"Man thelich?" he released his inner thought as a mere whisper among the leaves. He felt a breath, hot as a summer wind blow through his mind, and sound… an indistinct embryonic understanding awakening in him.

The moment shattered like glass as the arrow skimmed across the hart's head, releasing a spray of blood across Thranduil's cheek.  The beast jerked up, and away, and the tip of an antler grazed his face. He hissed at the sting of it, even as he pushed away from the tree, watching as the white hart bolted for cover. The world pushed in on his awareness once more.

Gil-galad's hunting party thundered into the clearing, the King with his bow raised, already taking aim at the retreating deer even as they drew their mounts to a halt. Without a thought, Thranduil turned and put himself in Gil-galad's way.

"No.  Let him go," he said, the authority in his voice clearer than the deadly song of any bowstring.

He turned his head, his eyes finding – without effort – the form of the hart as it ran, like mist, through the trees.

_…Ionden…_

Behind him, Gil-Galad swiftly dismounted and came to his side, and Thrandul could feel the king's eyes raking over him from head to foot.

"Morgoth's balls!" the king exclaimed in a most uncharacteristically graceless manner. "What in the name of All Light were you about?"

He shook his head, for a moment uncertain as to his answer, even as he turned to face the king.

"Forgive me, my lord," he settled at last on contrition, though he found fire burning in his blood for Gil-galad's treatment of the deer.  "I became separated, following I knew not what light, I—"

Gil-galad raised a hand to stay his words.

"It is I must crave forgiveness, Thranduil. The forests of Middle Earth clearly have business with you, it would seem.  I had no right to interfere."

The king nodded then to Thranduil's face and for a time, confusion warred with the cooling embers of his anger, which had sputtered as the king tendered his apology.  Then he realised, at the increasing sting in his cheek, that Ereinion meant to draw his attention to the hurt there that the stag's antler had given, and he raised a hand to wipe away his blood, serving only to comingle it with that of the hart that still sat upon his skin.

"Could have had your eye," Gil-galad warned, but Thranduil shook his head.

"He would not have harmed me," he said.

Gil-galad smiled and placed a gloved hand onto Thranduil's shoulder to lead him back toward where the horses awaited them, his spooked mount being led carefully back by one of the attendant grooms.

"I've said it before, Lasgalen, but you have a strange fate guides your path. Amroth would tell you the same."

Thranduil chuckled just a little with good natured humour, recalling the time – it felt a lifetime ago – when he had last spoken with Amroth.

_"Did you ever locate the family of your foundling?" Amroth asked._

_"I did not," he confessed, "but I came upon a maiden at the edge of the camp."_

_He did not confess that she had caught his notice some time before he approached her, nor that he had watched as she moved among the stricken, giving what succour she could._

_"I enlisted her help," he finished, drawing himself back from his reverie._

_"Was she beautiful?" Amroth asked, his tone sincere enough to draw a serious response from Thranduil._

_"She kept herself covered against the night; her hood raised, the cowl of her cloak obscured her features, but shone almost silver in the reflected…" he faltered barely a half breath as he realised the grin on his friend's face, before he finished, "…starlight-you are laughing at me, aren't you, Amroth?"_

_"But a little," Amroth confessed.  "And the name of this beauty that gave you to wax poetic on such a morn as this?  Wait.  Let me guess.  You did not ask."_

_"I did not ask," he confirmed, "and neither did she offer it, nor enquire as to mine."_

_"Thranduil," Amroth scolded, clapping his shoulder heartily.  "You are a hopeless case, and you lead me to believe that you may indeed be cursed with some fate or destiny as yet unknown, as they say are all who remain so long un-promised, let alone unwed."_

_He tried not to squirm at his friend's words, nor at the shiver of a heightened awareness, like a touch along his spine._

He shook his head, becoming uncomfortable as the memory resolved, and he realised that the maiden whose presence had captured the fullness of his attention was the same elleth that now commanded the attention of many at court, a relative – however distant – of the king with whom he now spoke.

"He _has_ said the same, my Lord," he managed, turning away slightly to hide his unquiet emotions, and the ever present, niggling sense that something was amiss with all he knew of her, as if some truth were yet to be revealed. If Gil-galad had noticed his discomfort, he did not make anything of it.

"Ride with me, Thranduil," he instructed. "There is something I would discuss with you."

Thranduil nodded, and walked at the king's side until both could mount their horses; tossed back his cloak as he settled himself on horseback, and gathered the reins to turn his stallion's head and follow the king from the clearing.  Before they had gone far at all, the king spoke.

"I have been thinking," he said, "that Lindon and Lasgalen would be well served if our alliance were to be… strengthened."

Thranduil swallowed hard. His mind suddenly race with worry. Perhaps the king had noticed , after all, the growing closeness he enjoyed with his relative. Even as the thought passed across his mind he felt a strengthening in the flicker of 'wrongness' that he always felt when he considered the two: Ereinion and Celyndailiel.

She named herself a distant relative and yet, here she was at court and, whenever he saw them together, there was a closeness there that belied her words. In other circumstances he might have suspected a growing romantic connection between them – and a flush of jealousy beset him briefly at the thought – but Gil-galad had openly denied such a relationship and besides, it felt… wrong to him, somehow, to call it thus.

"Strengthened?" he questioned, and the thought occurred to him that perhaps the king meant to use him to allay that suspicion he had dismissed that still ran rampant in some circles at court. That thought, also, did not did not sit easy in his heart either.

"I know your father sent you as an ambassador, Thranduil, between his people and we here," Thranduil held his breath, "but _I_ would have you as an advisor, my friend."

"Advisor?"

He could not deny the flurry of disappointment that he felt, before he pushed it aside to consider the king's words, and as he listened on to Gil-galad's reasoning, his mind further mocked his disappointed heart and asked him: _what would you have said, had he suggested such a manner of strengthening the ties between your two peoples?_

** ** ** **

Celyndailiel looked up as the buzz of alarm reached her ears.  For a moment she sat, torn with indecision, then she heard again the hushed murmurs of emotions bordering on fear from the maids around her, and prepared to leave the suite of rooms assigned to her, to go and confront King Oropher's evident disgruntlement at finding no one of note at home to greet his travelling party.

His arrival was unexpected to give the least comment to his sudden visit.  Slowly – with a grace belying her nervousness – she reached for the door handle and ignored the protests of both her maids and her conscience, and went in search of where her brother's steward had shown the visiting dignitary to wait.

"My Lord Oropher."

She greeted the tall, dour faced elf, and in spite of herself sought in him echoes of the fine features of his son, though as she thought on it, she supposed it was the other way around, and that which was present in the father was echoed in the son.

He had turned his head to look at her as she spoke, and she saw in his face the same hawk nose, defined brow and steely gaze, that Thranduil shared, though his eyes were not quite so blue as his son's.

_He must take after his mother then._

"I do not think we have ever met," he said, his response clipped.

"You are correct, my lord. We have not," she answered. "I am called Celyndailiel and I am… a member of the king's court."

She hedged around revealing either too much, or too little.  Her words were merely the truth.

"I regret that the king is not here to welcome you personally.  He and his party are still out at hunt."

"So said the steward that met me at the gate," he answered.

"Perhaps you would permit me to see to your needs until the king returns," she offered.

"And my son?" he interjected. "Does _he_ ride with this hunt?"

"He does, my lord," she answered, trying not to be offended by his disregard for her suggestion, or so she believed, until he responded, and was somewhat bearishly rude.

"Then I suppose, Lady Celyndailiel, if you have the authority to grant me welcome at court…" he trailed off, his eyebrow raised in challenge.  It was a challenge to which she responded with a cool smile.

"As was the king's steward, my lord," she said, "but I rather think that this is by far the more personal welcome."

At this she offered him her hand, and then dipped a low curtsy.

"Welcome to Lindon, my Lord Oropher.  We recognise Lasgalen as a true and honoured guest." He took her hand and nodded a brief gesture of acknowledgement, and she continued, before he could have the opportunity to speak," Perhaps refreshments, Lord Oropher, for you have been long upon the road, to have come from Eryn Galen."

"Thoughtful of you, my Lady," he answered, "but unnecessary."

"Be iest lin," she acknowledged that he turned down the offer before she gestured to the stewards who were hovering in the doorway. "Show King Oropher and his party to quarters, and see to their comfort."  Then to Oropher added, "You will excuse me, I hope, my lord.  There are matters that require my attention, but you will be well attended until my liege returns, and I shall see to it that he is informed of your presence at once."

Oropher barely acknowledged her words and turned to follow the steward that led him further into the court.

She waited until all but her brother's personal steward were gone, then caught his arm as he went to leave.

"See to it that refreshments are delivered none-the-less," she instructed him. "We must give no reasons for him to call the King's hospitality wanting."

He inclined his head in a bow of understanding, then turned his steps aside to go and follow her command.

Celyn sighed.

_Definitely,_ she thought of Thranduil, _must your mother be the one to whom you are more alike._

For long moments she stood, her heart beating so as to escape her chest, watching in the direction in which Oropher had left.  A kernel of deeper understanding began to grow in her mind, and the warmth of sympathy to slow her pounding heart.

Perhaps Thranduil were better off at court after all.

** ** ** **

The hum around the hallway did little to lift her mood from the pressure she felt, that had been growing in her since her earlier meeting with Oropher; a need to express herself, her feelings, her understanding, and to be understood. Scant chance of that, she knew, and for the first time in many a century, a kind of bitterness – a sad and sorry anger – rose inside of her.

She was not prone to ennui or melancholy, to which she knew some among her kind could fall prey, but in those moments at the formal reception of the esteemed King of Eryn Galen, the press of the long years bearing her secrets became that little harder to bear.  She did what she always had done.  She pulled the mask of a smile over her face, and settled into silence inside of herself – trying to ignore the rising clamour of her needs.

As soon as the meal was over though, and talk turned to a mix of politics and shared tales of the hunt, she excused herself to the balcony, in search of a greater sense of calm and a restoration of her equilibrium.  She could not challenge fate, and could no more be angered at her mother's decision than she could fault it.  Far too much had happened around the time of her coming, and the same politics that kept her brother in a position to strive for maintenance of the fragile peace between the Elvish races, and between the Elves and the younger races, could well have curtailed her young life even before she had taken her first few steps.  Even now – especially now – with the many Elvish peoples establishing their own realms so soon after the ending of the War of Wrath, she was not entirely safe.

"I must apologise for my father."

His voice behind her startled her. She had expected no one to follow her, least of all for Thranduil to come looking for her.

"There is nothing for which you need apologise, my lord," she told him without yet turning to face him.  No, she must compose herself from her warring emotions first.  Still, when she _did_ turn, she could not help but smile as she saw him.

He returned the smile and offered her an arm on which she might rest her hand, in place of the balcony rail, and when she did – he covered it with the warmth of his own as he moved them further aside from the doorway.

"I am more than certain, my lady," he said, "that you are just being polite."

She shook her head, still smiling, and looked up at him, her eyes meeting his, and a degree of formality slipped away as she could no longer see the interior of the hall behind his shoulder.  As though he could see it reflected in her eyes as she did, he too spoke less formally.

"I know my father, Celyndailiel." His voice was soft but resonant. "But come, if you will not accept my apology, then at least allow me to escort to the further door, where perhaps we might reach the anonymity of the dance floor.  Would you honour me with a dance?"

She blinked.  Had she been out on the balcony for so long that the festivities had progressed so far?  No wonder someone had come in search of her then.

"I should be the one honoured," she answered, and walked at his side to the farthest doorway, returned inside and took a space with him upon the dance floor, among the many couples that that obscured their partnering one another in the dance from sight.  Only then did she move to stand before him and lifted a hand to his shoulder. She settled with a near sigh, closer to him at the light touch of his hand at her waist and the warmth of his other hand that clasped hers lightly.

It was a simple dance that they began, courtly and bright, spirited in parts and more sedate and graceful in others, and she could not help but note, somewhat with irony, that this seemed to match their lives; his and hers both.  Without a word spoken they moved as one, as if some part of each of them were marking time with the steps of the dance.

"Tell me truthfully," he said after a while. "Was he very rude?"

"Abrupt," she answered, "If anything I would say abrupt."

"Ereinion's steward complained, Celyndailiel, that he refused to be greeted and welcomed by a mere servant." She shook her head, guessing what he was about to say of his father, but he went on anyway. "I cannot imagine that he was any the kinder or more tolerant to have been greeted by—"

"What do you want me to say, Thranduil," she interrupted with a soft but humourless burst of laughter. "That he was sarcastic and superior? Yes, he was both, but I am _used_ to that."

She had not meant for the last comment to slip out, and even while hoping he had not taken note of it, she looked up into the frown upon his face, and she _knew_ his expression and the raised eyebrow that followed meant for her to continue; to explain.

"It is an attitude I have known since I came to court, perhaps even before that." She took a breath to calm herself, and offered up a smile that she really did not feel.  Her needs, her desires to be known for who she was were suddenly so sharp as to be painful.  The world constricted, narrowed and dulled to fewer dimensions than the rich work of art that was Middle Earth, for lack of them.

"That does not excuse it in my father," he argued softly, but as though sensing the downward swing in her emotions, as though he could in some way _feel_ them in her, he began to steer her in the steps of the dance back toward a quieter side of the hall. "If he said anything to hurt you…"

"Peace, Thranduil," she urged, though was less than convincing even to her own ears. "Considering the reception your father received he was remarkably…"

She faltered. He had been what? Gracious? Understanding? Condescending? Sarcastic…?

"…Patient," she finished at last.

He brought them to a halt.

"You do not need to save my feelings, my lady. I told you, I know my father and have spoken with him since my return and he…"

She looked up at him as he ground to a halt.

"Was less than complementary," she finished, but he shook his head.

"He merely questioned from where you dared believe you had the authority to counter his wishes and send refreshments to his room in spite of his express instructions not. I took his objections with a grain of salt, if that was all he could find fault in, but now I find you wavering on the edge of hurt because of it, I cannot _help_ but wonder at his treatment of you."

Suddenly, and without reason, the bitter anger she had been trying to hold at bay burst like a star inside of her, and realising that he held her, as though they still danced, she pulled from his arms and backed a step or two away, catching her long skirts in her hands, and sweeping them aside so as not to trip in her haste to put distance between them.

"It is _not_ your place to protect my feelings, Prince Thranduil," she ground bitterly and her heart _ached_ at her own words to him, and at the knowledge that she only lashed out in petulant ire at the unfairness of the destiny she felt upon her. Equally as unfair as her directing that emotion his way, and her anger became a painful longing to take back what she had just said as she watched a flash of hurt spark within his eyes, which he then veiled with a shield of propriety.

"Be iest lin," he said, and offered her a bow, behaving at once as she had so named him. "If you have no further desire of my company, I shall excuse myself."

She clenched her fists at her side, wanted to reach for him and catch his arm, but found herself unable to move.

"No mae, hiril, nín, n'aur."

He bowed again, then turned away, and with measured steps, left her side, and she felt his absence as if the light of all the stars had suddenly fallen from the sky.

"Stay," she whispered into the empty air.

** ** ** **

His head ached and he tugged at the fastenings on his finery, wanting nothing more than to throw it off, lie down and lose himself in the oblivion of his reverie.

He cursed himself black and blue with imaginary bruises for the way he had treated the lady Celyndailiel, when there had so obviously been something troubling her sufficient for her normally measured countenance to break apart; to allow him a moment to slip beneath the courtly veil that divided them and draw closer to her.  He had long since realised that his heart desired nothing more.

"Idiot!" he chastised himself aloud, and shrugged off his long, outer robe and tossed it haphazardly across the foot of the bed.

"I could not agree more!"

He turned suddenly at the sound of his father's voice from the doorway, and almost growled at him.  Oropher was the _last_ person Thranduil wanted to see.

"I was just preparing to rest," he said in a tone that he hoped his father would recognise as indicative of the fact that he had no desire to speak that night. "Is there something you need?"

"My son to see reason!" Oropher snapped, and stepped within the chamber fully, closing the door behind him. Thranduil fixed a stern gaze upon his father.

"Reason in what, exactly?" he demanded, "I thought you approved of Gil-galad's desires to appoint me advisor.  Is that now not so?  What changed your mind?"

"Neither my mind, nor my resolve are changed, whelp!" his father snapped, clearly angered, and Thranduil was about to ask what was bothering him, when he went on. "Do you _know_ who she is, this courtesan with whom you trifle?"

Fire hotter than the embers in the grate blossomed inside Thranduil at his father's words, and the clear implications he was making. How dare he call to question _anything_ of Celyndailiel's virtue or position?  How _dare_ he question Thranduil's heart, against all tradition?

"She is Noldor," his father continued undeterred by his expression when he could not find sufficient words to answer. "Noldor!"

The red of anger flowering inside of him became the white of fury as his father voiced the true measure of his objection.  A part him knew that he had to remain calm.  That if he lost his temper then whatever argument that Oropher came here to force upon him, he would lose, and succumb to a path he could not – _would_ not walk.

"How _dare_ you try to shackle me with your hypocrisy!" he growled. "Here you stand, objecting to her heritage and no doubt about to cite tradition to argue against such a bond, when you yourself break long held traditions an interfere in the life path of your—"

"You are my _blood_ , Thranduil," his father raised his voice to counter Thranduil's earnestness, "And I'll _not_ have you debase yourself like that arrogant popinjay in Harlindon, surrendering a good Sindarin bloodline to the likes of a Noldorin daughter of a—"

"Be _very_ careful how you finish that sentence," Thranduil warned, and he had not realised that his long strides had brought him to within his father's personal space until he stood virtually nose to nose with the older Elf.

"Or what?" Oropher did not capitulate.

"Or father or not, King or not, I _will_ put you down!" He clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening as he sought _not_ to go through with the promise he had just made, knowing that it would only further anger his father, a tiny, lost voice inside of him almost pleading with Oropher to explain why he so hated him. "She is our hostess, and you cannot speak such ill of—"

"Gil-galad is our _host_ ," his father interrupted.

"And he, too, is Noldor," Thranduil argued, spinning and making himself step away from the King of Greenwood. "Yet you have no issue in allying our bloodline with him in accepting my position as advisor without hesitation."

"Advisor, yes. Such a bond benefits Eryn Galen," Oropher spat, "and if you were not so blinded by the rosy haze upon your heart, you would not have needed me to speak of it."

"I am blinded by _nothing_ , Ada!" he snapped, "Least of all ill-tempered prejudices with which you have allowed yourself to become consumed. Would you rekindle the wars with which our people have been all but crippled?"

"It is not without cause: my distrust," Oropher growled, "And there remains a great distance between allying our house with the High King and maintaining his good graces, and continuing some… some dalliance born of ennui with a woman of the court but a distant relative and ideas _far_ above her station."

Thranduil opened his mouth to answer, but his father was not yet done, and finished with a forcefully, damning, "She will only break your heart, Thranduil. U-lavin sen!"

" U-gerich dâf!" he answered in kind, and knowing he would soon find it hard to contain his rising fury, snatched up his outer robe, pushed past his father and headed for the cooling air in the gardens of Lindon.

** ** ** **

The breezes had done little to calm the trembling that had beset her as the peace she had sought in reverie had turned only to the visions that so often disturbed her. Ever since childhood's end, but the slightest shift in the will and mood of the Valar, it seemed, had gripped her with foresight, both urgent and as vivid as it could be terrifying, though rarely was the meaning quite so clear.

_She stood at a high window, the urgent ring of a hunting horn sounding in the darkness around her, and at its desolate cry, the stars began to fall to darkness in the sky, as if extinguished by some great wave of night, and a pain like a spreading, red mist engulfed her from the centre out. A howling wind followed, whipping around her, standing now in a broken courtyard strewn with leaves that were crumpled with age, and burned about their edges, some great calamity had plucked them, too soon from the embrace of the tree that gave them life.  She stepped upon snowy, cloven hooves toward the great stag. He towered over her, shining with the light that was absent from the sky. She lowered her head beneath his, leaning against him, bearing his weight even as he fell._

She turned suddenly, trying to escape the returning, recurring vision and gasped as the figure seemingly materialised from nowhere, directly in her path. She raised her arms to fend off the impending collision, and felt the warmth of hands slip beneath her elbows in support.

"Lady Celyndailial…"

The warmth of the voice momentarily chased away the chill that beset her, and wrapped a partial shield around her against the dread that usually followed in the wake of such a vision. For the space of a heartbeat she basked in it, in his warmth, and then returning to herself, maintained the good grace to draw away to an acceptable space.

"My Lord Thranduil," she greeted him.

"Forgive me," he answered, "I have intruded on your privacy yet again."

"No, my Lord, I welcome it," she offered him an uncertain smile. "And your company, please… excuse my earlier rudeness at dinner.  I was…"

She trailed off.  How did she explain to him all that troubled her?  Why did she so desperately want him to understand? Earlier in the evening she would have been overjoyed for _anyone_ to understand her life, her plight.  Now all that mattered was that that _he_ know, that _he_ understand.

She looked up at him, as though craving his help. He offered her his arm.

"Walk with me, my Lady," he said softly.

"I would have thought you would be resting, my Lord," she answered softly, but nonetheless accepted his much welcome gesture.

"I might have been," he said, and then a short huff escaped him and she looked up at him again, even as they began to walk, into the smile he offered, a trace of irony present and visible in his eyes. "But for the interference of my father."

"Ah," she said.  Her fingers tightened on his wrist, where they lay, still courtly, still restrained.  Behind the shield of irony, she thought she saw a hint of pain, the struggle of an adult too soon separated from the regard of his parents, and in that she felt a kindred with him.

"I never knew my father," she offered, speaking without thought other than simply wanting to open to him as they moved deeper into the gardens. "And my mother died when I was still a child."

"You have my sympathy," he said, and as if by unspoken agreement began to lower his arm on which her fingers rested, but caught her hand in his as it would have fallen away. The warmth of his fingers surrounding hers brought a new wave of longing to break over her, and with it, the vision of a younger Elf, standing before a painfully beautiful Lady, both in clear distress, both speaking in earnest. She turned her gaze upon him for the third time to almost _see_ the shadow of his mother's prophetic fears hanging over Thranduil's head.

"You lost your mother in the fall of Doriath." As she spoke the words she knew them to be true. It was a statement she made, not a question asked.

"I did," he confirmed, his voice brittle, betraying the swift current lying beneath the deep waters of his too-controlled emotions. It would bring him to harm… one day. "My father spoke of it with you?"

She heard his doubts in his voice, and shook her head, shifting her fingers against his to recall the strength of the connection she had felt with him as they touched; _willing_ him to feel it too as she lied, "I… must have heard it somewhere at court." _Your heart spoke of it._ But her inner voice spoke the truth.

** ** ** **

He knew her words for a lie the moment she spoke them, but he also saw her fear, a cliff edge on which she teetered and could feel the solid ground of her needs on the leeward side of a strong wind that seemed to buffet them both toward falling to the pain of abandonment.

  1.   He would not allow it.



"Celyndailiel," he said her name and brought them to a halt. She shivered, and without hesitation he shrugged off his outer robe and wrapped it around her. "You know it because you saw the truth in _me_."

"I did," she admitted softly, and looking up at him, added, "Thranduil, your father…"

The labouring of his heart, that beat too loud and too fiercely became an ache as she trailed off, and when she did not finish her thought after a moment, he spoke of what had brought him to the gardens, in search of peace… where he had found _her_.

"…has forbidden _this,_ " he told her, reaching for her hands to hold them in his own.

"We both know he has not that right," she told him.  "No parent does. To what does he object, exactly?"

He shook his head, not wishing to reveal his father as the unyielding bigot that his words had made of him. They may be at odds, but he realised in that moment that he loved him still – and in a moment of deeper pain realised how much he needed his father's love in return.

"I will judge him not," she promised, as if she had heard his feelings. "I merely seek to understand his position."

_And to be understood._

He heard the unspoken words of her heart more clearly than he had ever heard anything, felt the weight of that need, of the truth she carried and concealed – a fact of which he was suddenly certain. But what?

Distracted, his mind racing through all he knew, searching for possibilities, he said, "He likes not that you are Noldor; cites the marriage between Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel in support of his groundless objection."

"And yet himself remains loyal to a Noldorin King in ways that Lord Celeborn wavers to uphold," she reminded him. "Not all the Noldor are corrupted by the avarice and ambitions our Feanorian Kin."

He shook his head, and gently, almost hesitant in such a brief expression of his understanding he brushed a light caress over the backs of her fingers as he held them. He felt her sharp inhale at the gesture, and for a moment doubted himself, until she tightened her grasp upon his hands.

"I know, meduien," he breathed. Then with greater confidence said, "And I would never believe such a thing of you.  Like the king, you speak with wisdom and of the need to cease fighting amongst ourselves. You are very alike in that regard."

As he spoke the words, a shiver of awakening recognition passed through him, his own words, his own thoughts, echoing in his mind. _As thought you are cut from the same cloth._ He remembered a comment made by Gil-galad as they rode together while on the hunt.

_"The Lady Celyn would see it as an omen, Thranduil – your encounter with the hart."_

_"And you, my Lord?" he asked, and he could not help but wonder why the king would speak of the opinion of a member of his court that was but a distant relative._

_He turned his head to see the thoughtful expression on the king's face, and raised an eyebrow, wincing at the painful reminder this brought to his cheek as to how close the stag had come to him._

_"I suppose I might agree," Gil-galad said at last. "I value her wisdom, as the sibling I've never known."_

"And unalike in others," Celyndailiel said, her melancholy tone bringing him back from the afternoon's hunt and into the moment that hung between them.

Before he could ask what it was she meant, she spoke on, almost visibly shivering in spite of being wrapped in the warmth of his robe.

"I have a terrible fear, Thranduil," she said, so low that he had to lean closer to properly hear her. "I will lose him. I have seen it. A great shadow covers him, and all the world is shaken in fear and I am but a small thing, like a wren, lost and finally alone, I—"

The thought that had been teasing at the edges of his mind finally came to full flower, and everything he had been feeling of her suddenly made sense. _She_ made sense; her presence at court, Gil-galad's mention of and deference to her, everything. And then she brought herself to a sudden and shocked halt, the expression on her face almost one of terror, so much so that, combined with the desperation in her voice, he could not help but act.

"Forgive me, I misspoke," she almost begged him.

He drew her gently closer – protective, reassuring.

"Celyndailiel, no," he said, firm, but patiently all the same. "I think that you did not misspeak at all. Rather I believe you reached out for aid with the burden that you bear. Gil-galad… he is your br—"

Her fingers pulled free of his own, and in the next moment pressed to his lips to stop his words.

"And now I must burden _you_ to keep my secret," she murmured, looking up at him, her eyes imploring but soft, her closeness overwhelming almost every sensibility of thought and reason, as she finished, "as _I_ keep your heart."

"It is no burden," he said, her words ringing in the very depth of him, unlocking the promise of his own response, "for I would gladly guard your secrets, _and_ your heart as my own."

"Arasfain nín," she whispered, reaching up to run the tips of her fingers over the lingering hurt of the tear in his cheek.

"Mîrlosen," he said, and took her hand into his own once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> U-bardh… dan ui mathan le… - Not home… but still, I feel you.
> 
> Man thelich? – what do you mean/intend?
> 
> Ionden – Mine [Lit: My Scion]
> 
> Elleth – elf woman (elf maiden)
> 
> Be iest lin – as you wish
> 
> No mae, hiril, nín, n'aur. – Be well, my lady, until morning.
> 
> U-lavin sen – I forbid it
> 
> U-gerich dâf – You have no right
> 
> Meduien – my sweet
> 
> Arasfain nín – my white hart
> 
> Mîrlosen – my shining jewel
> 
> The quotation at the head of the chapter represents the sentiment from both Thranduil to Celyn, and Celyndailiel to Thranduil that they heard the truth from each others' hearts. Gûreg i beth i pent. [lit: Your heart spoke the word]


	16. Ceritham sen

Third Age of Middle Earth - 2840

 

_I ven uin i anirad lin_

Thranduil looked up as the first feeling of unease passed across his awareness, already beginning to gather the letters and scrolls on which he had been working into a neat stack. Something told him he would not return to them that day.  It was a strong feeling; a cold feeling that was accompanied, not by a sense of dread, but with the sadness of resignation. It was almost as if something he had long known would come to pass was beginning today, and even had he wanted to, there was little that he could do to stop it.

His own musings disturbed him. He was troubled by the thought that something might occur, something of a tragedy that he might be able to stop, but might not _want_ to. He could not imagine anything that might befall his kingdom or his people that he would not wish to mitigate were it within his power.

Abruptly he came to his feet and began pacing the room.

"My Lord?" He turned to face Galion as his steward spoke. "Is something wrong?"

"The Watch," he asked, "Is it returned?"

Galion shook his head, and as Thranduil watched, put down his own quill and began to rise, and move toward the balcony doorway, to open the private office to the fresher air of the chamber beyond, as though he thought the air and the sounds of the waters cascading into the crystal filled cavern would soothe his king's mounting distress. Turning back to face Thranduil he finally answered.

"The Gate reports that none but your son's party has passed in or out since Tauriel left with the watch before your return." He shook his head again then moved to pour a small glass of deep red wine from a decanter beside the doorway, handing it to Thranduil as he continued. "They are long overdue and it is only due to Tauriel's habit of traveling far beyond our borders in pursuit of that which crosses her path that has prevented a second patrol being sent out in search of them."

Thranduil nodded, then closed his eyes and reached out with his senses.  As he did his finger traced the circle of the crystal goblet's rim, moist with wine, a clear song, high in pitch began to fill the room, carrying, traveling, as did his soul, far beyond the stone walls of the fortress that was his haven, and the safety of his people.

** ** ** **

Her hand faltered in the pull of guiding the stitches through fabric, the sound – a single note – taking hold of her awareness, and drawing her suddenly deeper within.  Her heart beat, loud and fast, her breathing came hot, heavy as the needle slipped from her fingers; the room spun, and her awareness raced through the thick green foliage of the forest surrounding the King's Halls.

_…She ran at his side, hooves beat on moist loam, a sense of urgency, of search… a thread of light between them sweeping aside all in their path. Flowers unfurled at their passage, leaves budding onto tangled trees, cleansing sorrow, cleansing disease, shadow - searching…_

The crystal clear note resonating in her mind shattered at the discordant howl of the hunting horn crying alarm, and Nieniriathlim jumped to her feet, her already racing heart pounding harder yet as she sought to get her bearings as further sounds of distress began to fill the air within the halls.

She had to go down.  She knew she would be needed.

** ** ** **

He came to himself in the instant before the hunting horn sounded from the outlying woodland.

"Summon healers," he commanded, already starting for the doorway; feeling Galion at his back. "The watch returns and there are those among them wounded."

Without appearing rushed, but moving with a purpose Thranduil headed for the courtyard, preparing to meet the incoming watch, knowing without a doubt who it was that would need the greatest attention of a healer, and his heart misgave him.

He remembered the first time he'd seen her…

_They came too late to save the traveling party, the outrider just too slow to reach the patrol, or their own warriors too unused to facing the dangers of such a road as lay through the once great woodland. He could not fathom why. It was hardly as though there had long been peace in this part of Middle Earth. Still he felt a quiet sense of guilt at their loss, at the deaths… senseless.  Such a waste._

_"Bury the bodies," he instructed softly, "At least what remains of their earthly presence can nourish—"_

_It was a small sound that cut him off, and he turned full circle, listening for it again, reaching out; the tiny light trembling in the shadows, stained red with the blood of her mother who had died in saving her. She could not have been more than ten coranar. Little older than his son had been when they lost Celyndailiel._

_In spite of the warning that shivered through his soul as he saw her, he lifted the young red haired Elf into his arms, and wrapped the folds of his cloak around her._

_"You are a daughter of the forest now," he told her softly._

…She'd taken the name he had given her as her own, in time, and for all the time that elapsed since that day, he had all but treated her as his daughter, compensating for all that he knew when he set eyes upon her. He had never had cause to doubt that she had striven to prove his trust in her.

"And so we face our first test," he murmured softly as he reached the centre of the courtyard, coming to a halt as they placed the litter on which they bore Tauriel down before him. He crouched at her side, and uncovered her pallid, shivering form, carefully running his fingertips over the blackening wound on the front of her shoulder.  She shifted a little, as though the touch caused greater pain.

"The poison, my lord," another member of the watch said as if in shame. "It spread so quickly."

"How long has she been this way?" he asked, holding up a hand to stay the healers as they moved forward with herb-scented water – healing herbs, he recognised the scent, Athelas – and instead, himself, took up the cloth to gently, almost tenderly bathe the seeping flesh.

"A day?" the watch-guard answered, "Two at most.  She wanted to investigate what became of our brothers; would scarce abandon them."

"They are slaughtered," he answered harshly. Then more softly, and with regret continued, "Ad Tauriel fir. Unless I miss my guess, this is a greater poison than any herb may cure."

He took a breath, glancing at the healer for confirmation of what he already knew. She moved closer, crouching beside her king, and gave the wound the attention of her practised eye – her knowing touch.

"Forgive me, my Lord," she confirmed his fears with her apology even before she went on. "There is the touch of shadow about this wound. Perhaps if we were able to send for Lord Elrond…"

"There is no time," he said and shook his head, knowing there was but one cure for this affliction.

Past and present warred briefly in his desires; his needs – the needs of his people – and all that he knew and left unsaid whirled like leaves in an autumn wind until he reached out, and placed a hand over the wound in Tauriel's shoulder, gathering himself to use healing power of a king.

The backlash was instant, and intense – a crushing cold, darker than starlessness.  He tried to push through none the less, until he was certain that the hiss of rejection was crackling audibly throughout the courtyard.

He gasped; knew he was trembling but could not abandon his foundling.

The warmth of another's hand closed over the ice of his own.

"Let me."

He felt the touch of her other hand at his shoulder, as though to draw him away, and opening eyes that he had not even realised he had closed, to his alarm saw that the palace guard, to an elf, had raised their weapons, aimed her way, as she touched him so familiarly.

"Farn! Daro!" he commanded, raising the hand he had snatched away from Tauriel to stay their actions. Then to Nieniriathlim, he shook his head barely, unable to stop the hint of fear from shining behind the ache in his ice-blue eyes. "I fear she is beyond all aid here."

In dismay and mounting worry, he watched her shake her head.

** ** ** **

She had not even noticed the actions of the guards until his urgent command, and the guard standing down in unison drew her attention to it.  She had been drawn there, and acted on another impulse than her own – even her denial of his warning about Tauriel was driven from somewhere inside of herself.

"No," she said softly, "Let me try."

She saw the moment that his reticence acquiesced to possibility that she _could_ save Tauriel from the Morgul energies that poisoned her Elvish light, more insidious than any poisonous substance could have been to any elf.  She saw the hope, but also the worry and something else she could not understand, and once again ignoring his guard, and propriety – driven repeatedly by that same, deeper sense of purpose that had driven her to his side – reached out to lay her hand to the top of his chest.

"I will do what I can."

Without warning the courtyard tilted, shifted and another scene, another time imposed itself upon her, upon them both.

_"If such a thing is possible, I shall not rest until I have seen it done," she answered._

_He bowed his head in acknowledgement, then tugged gently at the reins of his horse, excusing himself softly as he did._

"Thranduil!" The soft gasp of his name on her outward breath refocused his obvious concern for her and he cupped her elbow in support and leaning down to her hissed.

"I cannot allow this."

"You cannot deny it," she countered, "please… I cannot abandon her now."

"You think I do?" She saw anger, pain and something akin to fear at war in the hardening expression in his eyes, and shook her head. She knew without a doubt, though she did not understand, why his efforts were both in vain and dangerous, despite his desires.  He loved this young elf, and that too sharpened a tension inside him.

"I know you do not," she told him. "It is in your heart to heal her, but in your blood; a geas to deny her."

His fingers tightened about her elbows, almost painfully, as though what she said reached too close to the truth in the matter, and such a truth angered him. Thoughts and new memories rushed in on her, and from the tumult of them a clear cool sense of right took hold of her, and far from fight against his hold, she leaned closer, her lips beside the shell of his ear and she whispered, softly in a voice not quite her own.

"Lavo nin no i ven uin i anirad lin, aran nin."

She felt the tangible, physical response to her words and actions – the storm calming within him; the way his grasp on her elbows became once more supportive, almost gentle, as somehow – in spite of the reputation he carried as clearly as the crown on his head – she knew him to be.

"Take care," he murmured, and in the whisper of the touch along her arms as he released her, she heard the unspoken echo of all that guided her… _bereth nin_.

** ** ** **

Legolas emerged from the charred ruins of the dwelling as he had mere days before burst from beneath the waters of the pool at the base of the Silver Falls. Gasping for air, almost physically sickened by the carnage inside, barely touched by the fire that had incinerated the surroundings without, he leaned against what remained of the wall, little caring for the soot and grime that reached out to cling to his cloak.

"The bodies, my lord?"

Simply from the sound of his voice, Legolas could tell that the guardsman who emerged behind him was equally as disturbed as he, and he shook his head.  He could not bring himself to give the order that he knew would, in the long run, be the kindest. His own experience held the words captive behind his tongue.

How could he order the slaughtered family buried where they had fallen to nourish the blighted forest in which they had tried to live? How could he deny their daughter the chance to properly grieve them, to set eyes upon them one last time – to know and understand the truth of their death, and to know they would await her in Mandos' Halls?

How could he subject the lady Nieniriathlim to the kind of lingering pain and guilt that _he_ still suffered, having no grave, only a manufactured place of remembrance for his mother? His heart mourned daily until the numbness of it threatened even his memories of her.

He wondered for a moment if that was why his father would not speak of her… because he _could_ not – because he too felt that guilt?  Was it the same for his father?

"Prince Legolas?"

He blinked, then took a breath as he realised that the member of his watch was still awaiting his answer, and he refocused his thoughts.  He could not in all conscience return the bodies, defiled as they had been, to his father's halls, and subject the lady to the sight of them.  Even with the thought of his own pain, it would be kinder, by far, to spare her that.  At least she would have a _place_ to come and remember them.

"Retrieve the bodies, and bury what is left of them here," he ordered softly, "then finish what the Orcs began and let the fire cleanse and rejuvenate the woodland around them."

"Ceritham sen, hir nin."

Legolas returned the Elf's bow of acknowledgement and then peeled himself away from what was left of the wall, to head for his mount.  The sooner his father knew what had occurred, the sooner he could undo the strife he had put between them with the way he had left; speak to him of the lady in his father's care – perhaps discover more of the truth of her, and why he felt both uncomfortable, and familiar around her both at the same time.

If it _were_ that she knew of his mother – even where his mother's body lay – then perhaps _she_ would speak of it where his father would – or could – not.

** ** **

Silent, he stood, watching from the doorway as the young elven woman that had turned his life upon its head against every conceivable imagining, crushed yet another sliver of doubt that yet remained in his heart that she truly was the one whom his soul cried out for her to be.

In the same instant another part of him, the caution that had guarded his life through millennia, cried in protest of his acquiescence.  How did she know – when she presented the appearance of un-knowing of who she had been – how to heal the poison of the shadow that caused such dread sickness in Tauriel?

He watched Nieniriathlim's hands move with practised precision through the healing touches, the ritualised bathing; heard the softness of her voice murmur in the gathering night, absorbed in the spell she wove even as the lady's maid assigned to her moved as a whisper around the chamber, lighting lanterns and candles one by one.

His breath hitched, stalled and he almost stepped within, except that movement at his shoulder, and the soft murmur of a voice drew him back.

"Your son, my lord."

Instead, he reached in to pull the door closed without the suggestion of a sound, then turned to watch as Legolas entered the chamber, two members of the palace guard at his back.

"Leave us," he ordered, his eyes meeting those of his son's, and already he could see the anguish bubbling beneath the surface of Legolas' emotions.  He barely registered the obeisance of his steward and the two guards, as they left. "Legolas?"

In answer the prince crossed the room and offered a silk wrapped bundle for his attention. He took it into the palm of his hand and unwrapped the silk to reveal the matching rings; bands of silver leaves entwined with delicate sapphire flowers, one ring larger in size than the other.

"They are dead then," he as much stated as asked.

"Slaughtered by Orcs," Legolas answered, his voice staccato as he all but spat the words, "Violated. Defiled."

He sighed a soft blessing on the departed souls. They may have lived outside of his direct protection, but they were still his people. He glanced briefly toward the door that he had closed.

"A husband and his wife," Legolas continued. "The dwelling had been sacked and burned. That…" his son nodded toward the rings that Thranduil carried, almost with reverence and set on a low table before the fireplace. "…was all that I could return to her." Legolas sighed then, and murmured, "I gened  ten trastatha i chind nín an vedui o uir."

For a moment, Thranduil closed his eyes, his mind a jumble of possibilities of what to tell his son, how to best approach the questions he _knew_ the prince must have.  Should he even say anything at all?

"Thank you," he said softly, opening his eyes to dip his head in a bow of recognition of his heir's achievements and fulfilment of his duty. There was nothing he could say.  Nothing he _should_ …

Evidently sensing he had been dismissed Legolas returned the gesture and turned toward the door.

…and yet…

"Legolas?"

The prince stopped and turned again to face him. Thranduil took a breath.

"Forgive me," he began. "That I said nothing to you of the maiden was in no means a slight, or doubt in trust. There are yet many things I do not, for certain, understand."

"But it _is_ something to do with my mother?" Legolas asked, and he could not help but hear the soft note of hope that lingered in his son's voice.

"Yes," he answered quietly, and in his expression he revealed _his_ hope, his appeal for understanding of his decision not to speak of it to Legolas. His heart ached when his son turned aside once more without a word and headed for the door.

Thranduil, too, turned, reaching for the mantle that framed the fireplace, to steady himself there, and for the briefest of heartbeats, to rest his head upon the tapered hand.  He raised his head and drew in a sharp breath as Legolas spoke again.

"Then…"

He turned his head to regard Legolas, who stood, still facing the open doorway, poised upon the threshold.

"…I am content to wait."

He drew another long, slow breath, and said gently, "You have my thanks."

"None are needed," Legolas said, then faltered slightly before asking, "But… will you send me word of Tauriel?"

"I shall," he answered, and watched as Legolas nodded, and then half turned to nod to him in a not _quite_ formal way, before taking his leave with a soft spoken exchange.

"Father…"

"…My son."

** ** ** **

Long hours…

The moon had long since set and it seemed to Thranduil fitting that this ill news as he bore must be delivered to her beneath such a lightless pall.  Even the fire, that had once burned fiercely in the grate of his room, had dwindled away, and he had not permitted stewards to rebuilt it, nor had given it new life by his own hand. The only sound he had made after he retreated to his own quarters – taking with him the marriage bands of Nieniriathlim's parents – had been to instruct Galion to bring her to him, when she left her duties at Tauriel's side.

Instead he stood in a meditation of silence, one hand resting lightly on the mantle above the fireplace, the other at his side, only curling closed when the door behind him opened and shut again – the whisper of a moment held on a knife edge… a moment caught between past and present cresting on waves of pain remembered and as yet unrealised.

_"Celyn," he breathed. "You have come to me..."_

_As he lifted his head, blinking as though to better see her, his head tipped to one side, and barely breathed her name again.  She moved – ever graceful and gentle in motion, she reached up with one hand to run her fingers softly over the side of his face._

_"How could I not," she asked him tenderly, her tone full of love and promise, "when I feel the cold shadow of despair too close around your heart?"_

"My Lord?" The tired softness of her voice disturbed his memory, and he half turned, looking at her across the crest of his shoulder. "Your steward… he instructed that I come to you. The Lady Tauriel is resting peacefully, all trace of shadow is gone."

"You have done what I could not," he told her, a measure of wonder in the murmur of his voice, "without you ever knew why that should be."

He watched her falter, the flicker of a something half awakened flashed across her eyes and he turned the rest of the way to face her, all but willing her to remember. Instead his movement uncovered the shadows from the small table that he had set before the hearth, to let the dim light fall upon the rings he had set there.

His own heart stalled painfully as he saw understanding run her through as surely as if the crude swords of the orcs had cut her down, and with an inarticulate cry she stumbled forward, her knees beginning to buckle before she reached the rings' clarion call.

He met her, caught her and wrapped his arms around her, coming to his knees to cradle her as the first of her sobs shattered the silence of the room, and like a child she called out for her lost parents. Her fingers winding into the fabric of his robes, their grip _begging_ him to lie to her, to tell her all was well and the sure knowledge he felt streaming from her heart was in error.

"Ai, Nienanin, gohenno nín, guren..." his words were whispered and earnest as he held her close - surrounding her with himself as she sobbed for their loss "...that I was not there to save them.  That I had not sent a _legion_ of warriors to guard your home."

He knew that it was not the time, but in the face of such grief as he felt from her, _shared_ with her, he could not hold himself apart from her any more, not after so long, not while knowing all that he did of her, and not whilst _feeling_ her pain, her sorrow and despair as sharply as he did… as she had once with him.

_"Quildë," she murmured softly, "Quildë Melethron..."_

_As he looked up at her, she leaned down to him, her long, unbound hair like strands of light flowing around the two of them, as if shielding him from all the griefs of the world as she kissed away the tears brimming in his eyes._

_"You are a legacy of light," she breathed the words against his lips, though - much as she may have wanted to - she did not kiss them. "A sunrise that will chase away this shadow of night..."_

He heard her despairing thought like a bell inside his mind, ' _They are gone… I am alone… lost…'_ and drew back enough to cup her face with his hands and encourage her to look up at him, gently wiped at the tears that bathed her cheeks, his own heart twisting and breaking in her grief.

 

"No, my sweet love," he guarded his words no more. Let her take from them what she would, let her think ill of him as other must, he was sure, who did not know the truth.  "You are not alone.  My heart _grieves_ with you for your loss, but never, _never_ , think that you are alone."

Unable to keep pace in wiping away the tears, he cupped her cheeks once more between his hands, and leaned down as he sheltered her against him, to lift the salty wetness away from her cheeks with the brush of his lips, descending, first one side of her face, and then the other, until he shared breath with her, the warmth of his seeming to calm her sobs.

"Gerich nin," he said softly, "Gerithach _ui_ nin, and I will bear this sorrow with you, shelter you from grief... despair..."

He breathed the last words against her lips, slowly releasing the lock, the restraint he had upon his emotions, and the strength of his feelings for her, the full truth of his love trembling just beneath the surface of his mind, he drew her closer still, as his breath trembled against her mouth.

It was tangible – a sharpness that ran across his lips, and an almost visible flash of golden light flared between them. He felt the tension of realisation possess her. She pushed at him, broke apart from him, and moved suddenly backwards, her hands falling behind her to catch herself as she gasped for a breath that sounded almost painful.

A flurry of panic ran across his soul, and he was reaching for her once more just as she rose, and he too followed as she moved across the room - the room they had so often shared - as if she were slowly awakening from a dream that had laid heavy upon her in sleep.  His heart felt incapable of beating, his lips, still heated from the closeness with her own mere moments before, parted to draw new breath.

He watched her slender hand rise to wrap around the bedpost, knuckles white, and he breathed as _she_ did, as though their lungs were connected, but the breath left him in a rush when her words reached him.

"Celyndailiel…" she whispered, "I'm…"

Like a key, turning in a dreadful lock, he all but _felt_ the chains of magical restraint fall away, as if some kind of foul atmosphere were suddenly beginning to lift, leaving behind the clear, starlit world.

"Yes," he breathed, the word coming out as a sigh almost of wonder and relief.  He took a step closer, behind her, wanting nothing more than to wrap her in his arms, but he felt her confusion, bordering on fear.  Instead he raised a hand to softly cover hers where she still gripped the bedpost, standing close enough that she would feel his warmth, but not so close as she would feel threatened by it, by him. He could not bear that thought.

"Bereth nín, I have consulted with the wisest among us to reach an understanding as to why the Valar should lay such conditions upon you... upon _us_.  We have no answers... we had only a warning." He could hold himself back no longer, reached out to trace a gentle caress over the top of her shoulder, down along the arm that did not hold the bed post. "I, myself, was pulled to the very threshold of the Halls of Waiting; heard the voices of the Valar give the warning."

He moved again to close the final distance between them, to bring his chest to connect with her back, "I was so afraid for you, Melethrilen... and I _do_ share your grief... now as once before..."

_Her slender frame was curled over that of her brother, the soft sounds of her weeping met his ears and made his own heart ache as deeply. He moved over to her quietly, and his long fingered hands slipped gently over her shoulders.  He brought his lips to the back of her head, then shifted his cheek to the side, his lips close to her ear._

_"My spirit weeps with yours," he murmured._

_"I knew," she sobbed, her shoulders shaking with the strength of her grief. "I saw... so many years ago, but this... but now...."_

_She half turned her head, her fingers still tangled in the cloak they had wrapped around Gil-Galad, as though to let him go would have cut them both adrift... the pain in her eyes beseeched him to save her._

He would have spoken more, but in that moment she pulled her hand from beneath his and letting go of the post, scrambled up onto the bed and turned to kneel so that she faced him almost chest to chest.

"There is an ache deep in my heart, like I have missed you for thousands of years, my heart is fighting, wanting to rejoice in being united with you, but suffocating in my grief, I cannot… I cannot even…"

The flurry of her struggles twisted in his heart and he longed to answer, even as he stepped closer, to support her, steady her, his hands slipping across the sides of her slender waist, and his expression spared nothing of the way he felt for her, as he watched her still fighting with herself, as if one moment she wanted to hold him, and the next wanted him far away.

Instead she leaned forward, her cheek next to his as she whispered of her deepest feelings, and of her desperate need, conflict remaining even as she named him as her love.  He could do naught else but wind his arms around her fully and draw her to him as she spoke.

"This grief, this despair that I feel, I have felt before: when you lost your father; when I lost Gil-Galad – how can I know this? How can I grieve for people I hardly remember, that feel like a distant dream? Do I grieve for my parents or are they Nieniriathlim's parents? Am I still Legolas' mother? Am I still your wife? My love please, help me, please make it stop!"

"Beloved," he murmured, "I have consulted with the wisest elves I know and both of them agree with the feelings of our hearts.  You _are_ still Legolas' mother... and yes, you are still my wife. That was never in question in my heart. The way I feel, the way my soul... _knows_ yours, even if you are yet estranged."

He gently but insistent guided her to look at him, his fingers running into her hair, speaking even more softly, "You grieve for parents that loved you, protected you from this... _cruel_ condition the Valar have placed upon you, my Celyn, and I grieve with you to know that I shall never know those who returned to me the greatest treasure of my soul."

Even as he spoke he saw the deepening of her desperation for focus, for relief, for some anchor, a solid ground on which to stand, and he could not deny her any longer.

_"You have always been stronger together."_

Elrond's words to him echoed in his mind, and acting upon his own longing and a protective instinct so deeply a part of him that it drove the very essence of his soul, he cupped her face and guided her lips to meet with his in a kiss that began softly, gentle and deep, but soon became fuelled by their combined needs, taking her mouth in an intimacy of desperate passion. His tongue mapped her mouth, caressing hers; his lips pressed to hers, as he drew her closer, slipping his arms around her to gather her fully against him as he lay her down, following her to hold her, cover her.

_'I would give you all the_ worlds _, my heart,'_ his mind sang to her. _'Anything to bring you peace.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ad Tauriel fir – And Tauriel is dying
> 
> Farn! Daro! – Enough! Stop!
> 
> Lavo nin no i ven uin i anirad lin, aran nin. – allow me to be the conduit of your desire, my king. 
> 
> Ceritham sen, hir nin – It will be done, my lord
> 
> I gened ten trastatha i chind nín an vedui o uir – the sight of it shall haunt my eyes until eternity ends
> 
> Ai, Nienanin, gohenno nín, guren… – Alas, my Niena, forgive me, my heart…
> 
> Quildë… Quildë Melethron – Hush... Hush my love (m)
> 
> Gerich nin – you have me
> 
> Gerithach ui nin – you will always have me
> 
> Bereth nín – my queen
> 
> Melethrilen – my beloved (fem)
> 
> The quotation at the head of the chapter reflects that which both Thranduil and Celyndailiel are to each other, 'the conduit of your desire.'


	17. Goheno Nin

Second Age of Middle Earth - 1200

 

_I ûred vain trasta na_ _i thaur matha lenda ananta athan tirithenc nind._

Riding down into the Lee of the surrounding hillside, it struck Thranduil just how much had changed even in the relatively short time he had travelled the surrounding lands and territories between Lindon, Eregion and Eryn Galen.

He sighed softly, and reined in his mount to take in the view and to breathe the salt-laden air, so different, refreshingly cleaning after the deep, loamy scent of the hills and woodlands, and the dry dust of the mountain paths.

"Glad to be home?"

He turned his head as Amroth steered his horse alongside him, and he arched an eyebrow at his friend.

"Hardly home," he said.

"Oh Really?" Amroth in turn raised an eyebrow. "How then is it that you ride toward Lindon like one craving homely comforts?"

"Amroth," he started, but his friend cut him off with an indulgent, teasing chuckle.

"Thranduil," he said, "Your _heart_ is here. Where else would be a better home?"

He closed his eyes and sighed, and even against the beckoning beauty of the Havens, a greater beauty yet resolved itself in his mind.

Her face shone with the reflected light of the sun and her hair, as rivers of spun gold, fell soft around her shoulders, and her eyes – the depth of midnight – gazed out upon him, a starlit night full of moonlight and promise.

An answering sigh, and a light chuckle blew through his mind as a warm spring breeze, though winter still griped the land.

_Arasfain_ …

The whisper came again and a smile touched his lips.

"Mîrlosen," he whispered, then even as his friend opened his mouth to speak, no doubt to tease again, he asked, "And what of you, my friend?"

"Little to tell," Amroth answered and turned away, his gaze glazing as if to see homeward across the distance. Thranduil knew his friend's words for a lie, but knew better than to challenge overmuch.

"Time will resolve your differences, Amroth," he said. "Have faith."

"Estel nan ind maethant dîr ir he geri ta pîn, a di castad mae." Amroth huffed a derisive burst of laughter. "Her gentle heart is troubled, Thranduil, by the ill she feels lingers but beyond our fragile stewardship."

"Lady Celyndailiel has expressed a similar sentiment many times."

"They would get on well: Nimrodel and your Celyndailiel."

"Hardly mine," he answered, and a band of fear that his words might prove somehow prophetic, tightened around his heart.

Amroth shook his head.

"Come, my prince," he said, "Let us finish our journey and banish those fears besetting our hearts."

Without waiting for ascent he flicked the reins, barely, encouraging his mount onward toward the settlement. After a moment, Thranduil followed.

** ** **

Her restlessness was betrayed only by the way she ran the decorative strands of woven silk from the waistline of her dress through her fingers.  Otherwise she was completely still as she stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, where elves continued to arrive and assemble for the meeting her brother had called. The one her eyes sought had not yet appeared, and her belly lay heavy with a fear she could not – would not – name.

Everything about the meeting filled her with a muted kind of dread. She was unsettled; unhappy.

The tremor of a lasting shiver passed through her slender form, and her eyes were drawn to a figure standing nearby to the elf she recognized as Lord Celeborn. Tall he was, and shining with an inner light but which felt muddy and the embodiment of a lie.  She tried to shake off the feeling as paranoia; as the manifestation of her unsettled emotions, but as she watch, he looked up, his eyes meeting hers across the distance.

Her breath stilled, drawn by the hollow pressure that built inside of her and she became filled with indistinct whispers, temptation and shadows. When she drew breath it was shallow and her body hummed with a want against which her heart cried out. She felt sullied by it.

"Thranduil, hurry." she whispered before she even knew she had spoken aloud.

"My lady?  The queen…"

She drew a sharp breath as the moment was shattered by the arrival of her lady's maid, leading the Numenorian queen out to the balcony, and Celyndailiel blushed in an uncharacteristic burst of shame that her maid might have heard her fearful plea. There was no cause nor reason for her shame, for Liselinwen was her confidante and privy to her feelings for the Sindarin prince of Greenwood the Great. Perhaps then it was the presence of the child of man that was its cause.

She buried her feelings and turning from the railing held out both her hands toward the Numenorian.

"Hiril Ancalimë," she greeted her and curtsied as the other woman placed her hands within her own. "Mae govannen."

"Hanon le, Hiril Celyndailiel," the elder woman answered, then nodding her head toward the gathering in the courtyard asked, "Who is he?"

Celyndailiel's blush renewed.  Had the queen also sensed her disquiet, and the other emotions that trembled within her, fighting against her denial?

"I… know not, my lady," she said softly, "He arrived some days ago at court. The murmurs name the east as the direction from which he hailed and yet I do not think he comes from King Oropher's people."

"I see your discomfort," the Numenorian queen confessed frankly. "And with a woman's intuition I sense it is more than a simple observation. Should I worry?"

"Majesty," Celyndailiel tried to minimize the impact of her unfounded feelings. It was not fair to prejudice one soul against another with little more than a feeling for reason. "I would not presume to pass such a judgement, especially as my own feelings are unsettled to begin with; an anxiousness to ensure that all those expected attend my king's council."

"Ancalimë will suffice, Celyndailiel," the queen said, and with a smile linked her arm with Celyn's to lead her back inside. "And I would value your impressions. Numenor comes late to Gil-Galad's regard, and sometimes dry, political advisement alone is not as helpful as I would like."

"For instance?" Celyndailiel turned a confused frown the queen's way as they settled onto the low couches inside her apartments.

"The players? The mood of the many leaders among your people?" Queen Ancalimë said, tipping her head as she regarded Celyndailiel once more frankly, "And the reason for your king to summon them."

"Concern, Ancalimë," she said, "That is always the king's motivation. There is unrest in the East, a shadow gathering as a threat to fall upon the land, and should it come to that, I am certain Gil-Galad would have us all ready to counter whatever may come."

"So it has nothing to do with a rekindling of the tensions between your peoples?" the queen asked and Celyndailiel could tell that she tried to moderate her tone to make it less an accusation and more an enquiry.

"Prejudice lingers," Celyn admitted, "and I am certain that you understand the reasons why, descended as you are from the House of Elros, who was once a hostage of the Fëanorians, but no, this meeting is not precipitated by such considerations of race and past misdeeds."

As she spoke she sent a silent prayer to the Valar that her words should prove true.

"There is a Fëanorian here, is there not?" Ancalimë asked.

Celebrimbor, who had come to Lindon with his kinswoman the Lady Galadriel appeared in full array of Celyndailiel's inner eye and she felt herself teetering on the edge of vision. Dwarves… a forge… molten precious metals….

"Lady Celyndailiel?"

She blinked away the foresight, and turned a tight smile the queen's way.

"More than one, should you include the Lady Galadriel," she said. "Noldor and Sindar live and work together in Lindon, there is no more conflict, we share stewardship of Middle Earth as the Valar left to us to do, those that did not take the journey west. No more."

"Forgive me," Ancalimë murmured. "I did not intend offense"

Celyndailiel nodded her acceptance and might have spoken again had not the queen continued a moment later.

"And what of the Elves of Greenwood the Great?" she asked. "I have heard that King Oropher refuses to meet in attendance with the present company of the King."

Celyndailiel bristled.

"King Oropher and his people stand as sentinels between the lands of the East, and Lindon and Eregion. He governs his people, and sends the Prince in his stead."

"A wise decision," the queen said, apparently mildly, but Celyn was not fooled by such pleasant overtures as the queen went on. "Especially for one who lost his wife in the Fëanorian attack on Doriath, to send his only son and heir west to the bosom of Elvenkind."

** ** **

"Every scout, every rumor out of the east speaks the same," Gil-Galad repeated, his voice harsh in its insistence. "The building of armies of Orcs, Trolls and other fell creatures of shadow. Men from far in the east turning against their westerly cousins, allying with Orcs and Goblins… set on conquest."

He shook his head and turned full circle to regard all of those present, trying to judge their mood, their thoughts, from the expressions on their faces. He found himself wishing he could have found an excuse to have his sister present without arousing additional suspicion than already existed at his apparent closeness with one whom, to others, seemed to be simply a young eleth of his court.

"The time to act is now, my friends, before we are chasing _after_ those forces as they overrun our settlement here, murdering and worse."

"Instead," Celeborn countered, "We head out chasing shadows, and _leave_ ourselves vulnerable to such attacks?"

"Unless my memory misgives me," another voice dissented Celeborn's words, "Did you not object to the suggestion that we should meet _Morgoth's_ forces before they reached our door while we also faced the threat of Fëanor's sons."

Thranduil sighed, his attention drawn to the regal looking elf that sat adjacent to the Lady of Light, who shifted with obvious discomfort.

"And was I not justified?" Celeborn insisted. "But a day later did not the wrath of the Kinslayers descend upon Sirion—"

"—taking from us our beloved mother," Elrond countered, his quiet voice cutting Celeborn to dead silence which Elrond allowed to linger for a time before rising to his feet. "My friends, we _cannot_ in all conscience allow the past to guide our actions in the present at this time. What is happening _now_ is not the same as what came before. We live under a new set of circumstances, in a Middle Earth where the Eldar are _united_ as a people. Noldor and Sindar live together now in harmony, the past is forgiven - of _necessity_ forgiven."

Thranduil drew his lip for the barest of moments, between his teeth, and then glanced around the hall, watching the faces of the others and the dawning understanding in the eyes of many as Elrond continued, arms spread as though to present himself as sacrifice, and yet again he found himself drawn in warmth to the younger elf.

"Take me. If _any_ here had the right to be offended, surely I should be he. Taken hostage, denied the love of a mother by the actions of others proven less the friend of elven kind and more the slave to ego and avariciousness. Yet _I_ forgive. I learned to live among the family that would have brought about our very destruction; _learned_ their wisdom… and there _was_ wisdom in that family – there _is_ still."

He turned then to the elf that Thranduil had observed earlier, who raised himself slowly to his feet.

"Elrond speaks the truth," he said, his voice softer yet than even the young elven lord. He had the manner, the demeanor, of an artisan, Thranduil noted, and wondered, not for the first time, as to his identity. The elf had regal bearing, his hair dark and his eyes also, held the cast of night within them, yet behind the darkness burned a spark of light, a power of good and the sense of wisdom that flowed around him like a ripple of water. The elf spoke on. "My grandsire made many errors, but not all of those of us descended from him carry the same madness; the same love of power and of craft that might… blind to all else, and to the dangers lurking in such obsessions."

"Your point, Celebrimbor?" Celeborn interjected acerbically.

"You and I are kinsmen by marriage, my lord, and though it pains me to speak contrary to your opinion in this, the King _is_ wise. We must guard against the powers rising in the east before we are called upon to take up arms against them in defense of our own."

"You speculate."

Celebrimbor shook his head.

"I sense," he said.

"We talk in circles."

When Galadriel spoke, raising her head from where it had been bowed as if she were lost in meditation or reverie, her voice was deep; her words delivered with a slow deliberation, as if each one cost greatly.

"As though connected by the strands of some great web, I see the path of shadow spreading out across the light of Middle Earth. It touches many lives already; threatens many more. I fear we must heed these warnings that have come to us, ere we become smothered by a night as dark yet as that which fell upon us from Angband at the height of Morgoth's reign."

Elrond and Celebrimbor both nodded in agreement with the lady's words, and also in respectful recognition of her gifts, but Celeborn, it seemed, was not to be swayed from his intent to stir and muddy the waters of the meeting. Not even by the words of his wife.

"And what of our easternmost cousins, here present?" he asked. "Lord— forgive me, _Prince_ Thranduil… what is your father's position in all of this?  What says Eryn Galen?"

Thranduil stiffened, taking many long breaths before he decided he was ready to speak. Of his father's actual intent in respect of the rumors out of the east he could not speak. He had not returned home to Greenwood in many months, and even if he had, Oropher would not have discussed his thoughts and feelings with him. His father very rarely did more than leave him to guess at his intent and opinions. However in this instance it was not much less than certainty with which he spoke.

"Eryn Galen will protect her people," he said, his voice clipped. "And my father will countenance no ingress to our woodland home without strenuous opposition."

"Oh well then," Celeborn began. "What need have we for preparation fo—"

"Enough!"

Gil-Galad's voice cut through the murmuring that was beginning among the leaders of the Elvish communities at Celeborn's remark that dripped sarcasm even though incomplete. Thranduil glanced in the King's direction and saw the tell-tale signs of his carefully controlled anger. He had come to know and trust Ereinion as a good friend as well as liege lord, and loathed to see such anguish in his friend's expression.

"It would seem that we each have our own opinions of the meaning and importance of the news our scouts and informants have delivered to this court," the king said, "and our own ideas of the best course of action, if any, that should be taken. I, myself, choose to heed the words of the foresight given to us by the Lady Galadriel and Lord Elrond – you must all examine your conscience.

"Until _some_ of us have learned better manners," he did not specify of whom he spoke, but Thranduil could not help but glance in Celeborn's direction as the king's voice, and his expression darkened as he went on, "I mean to adjourn this council. I will send word when we might… reconvene together and in the meantime, you are welcome to avail yourselves of what you need here at court."

He nodded, and people began to make as though to move, to leave what had suddenly become a more tense and uncomfortable situation. Thranduil also rose slowly to his feet, realizing only after the fact that he was unconsciously trying to give Celeborn a chance to get as far ahead of him as possible in leaving the council chamber.

When finally he began to move toward the less crowded doorway a touch at his elbow stilled his forward motion and turned him aside as quiet words accompanied the gesture.

"A moment more of your time, Thranduil."

He walked beside Gil-Galad through a smaller door, leading to a breezeway down which they moved slowly, silent for a moment until Gil-Galad spoke again, holding out a message scroll, the seal of which was broken, but it was easy to tell from whom the message came.

"I received this but three days ago," Gil-Galad said gravely. "Unwelcome news."

"From my father," Thranduil said, as yet making no effort to unroll the parchment, nor to read the missive. "I can only assume that at least a part of the message discusses matters concerning me."

"Not part, my friend," the king said with a sigh.

Thranduil frowned, and looking down at the parchment in his hand, he unrolled it and began to read.

His heart caught. A cold more frigid than creeping ice began to still his veins, while a kind of dread kindled fire in the pit of his stomach.  He barely managed to control the rush of breath from his body to become a sigh echoed that of the king, the outward sign belying the boiling of his feelings inside; emotions he sought, and failed, to control when next he spoke.

"This is not what I want," he said, bitterness coloring every word. "You _have_ to know that."

"Of course I do, Thranduil, but," Ereinion sighed again, "What would you have me do?"

Thranduil shook his head.

"What _can_ you do?" he said, knowing there was nothing, or little of which his father would take notice. Though Oropher supported the fact of the High King's stewardship over Elvenkind, he no more swore fealty to him than he would have claimed friendship with Lord Celeborn.

"I think you have little choice, Thranduil, than to obey your father."

"This is not a matter over which a parent may hold sway, Ereinion. You know that!"

"Even so," Gil-Galad stopped him with a hand upon his arm, so suddenly that Thranduil half turned, leaving him facing the king, with too little time to mask the emotion burning in his eyes. He watched Gil-Galad swallow. "Even so, my friend, much as it is agony to me to command it, I _need_ your father's support – the alliance with Greenwood _must_ hold."

Thranduil started to shake his head, his limbs suddenly leaden, and the news threatening to break his every last resolve. A day that had begun in the brightness of hope suddenly darkened to a breaking storm.

"It will," he growled, "My father is not stupid and—"

"Your father - forgive me - is stubborn, and slow to forget or to forgive errors in our shared past," he held up a hand, "I mean no offense, Thranduil, but I _must_ take that into account when deciding the best course for our people now. It hurts me, my friend – and I know not half so much as you – but I must insist that you obey his wishes in this. Lindon needs Greenwood's goodwill, and it seems you are its key."

"And if I choose not?" Thranduil forced the question past the tightness in his throat.

"You will not choose not," Gil-Galad said sadly, and even as the king spoke, as the growing ache drove more deeply into Thranduil's heart like a great, heavy spike. He knew that Gil-Galad spoke as a friend first, one that knew him almost as well as he knew himself, and not as the Elven High King. He, too, had weighed the news against the emerging picture of the future unfolding before them, and knew that the king was right. Alliances must hold, and for that – sometimes – sacrifices must be made, whatever the cost. He sighed and bowed his head, and as if understanding that he had accepted the truth, and the hard road he must now walk, Gil-Galad went on equally as solemnly. "Caro dadwenant lín, Oropherion Thranduil o Eryn Galen, ad galu nín gwae na le."

** ** **

"I feared you would not come," she said, her back to him still as he came to a halt behind her on the bench on which she sat. Something about the sound of his footsteps made her fearful to turn; fearful of what she might see in his eyes if she did.

His silence stretched a moment too long and made her turn in place to look up at him, murmuring his name softly. His name upon her lips apparently broke whatever spell held him immobile and mute and he moved, taking the two short steps that separated them, to lower himself to the same bench on which she sat, half turned to face her as she was him, their legs either side of the carved seat.  He took her hand into his, and gently pressed her palm to his cheek.

"When have I _ever_ failed to visit with you whenever I have come to court?" he asked softly.

The sound of his voice should have soothed the bands of unsettled feelings that were winding tighter around her with each passing moment, but there was a brittle quality to it that she had not heard before. It made her fear, all the more, the revelations that she had sensed at day's dawning that it might bring.

"Never," she whispered, and ran her thumb gently over his cheek before drawing her hand from beneath his. Then even more softly she breathed, "Tell me, Thranduil."

"My father has sent for me, Celyndailiel," he answered, and looked down to where their hands now lay, somehow entwined again, against the top of his leg. She followed the direction of his gaze, then looked up to try and read his expression. Her heart stalled when she saw he avoided the meeting of their eyes.

"Arasfain," she raised her hand to lift his face, and when he finally allowed his eyes to meet with hers, she saw pain behind a hard, steel blue shell of an anger, like ice. "We both knew a time would come when your father would want you at his side; when he would put you at a greater remove from influences he considers… undesirable, and that it would likely be when we here crave the strength of your presence…"

She faltered for a moment too long and watched as his expression shifted to one of protective concern, more like himself for a moment, before – it seemed to her – he denied himself and pushed it away, but not before he had asked, "What troubles you, Mîrlosen?"

She shook her head, but his expression was insistent of disclosure.

"There is a presence… here at court, recently arrived…"

"Celebrimbor," he half asked, half stated to her, as though he was not certain that she knew the other elf's name. She shook her head and he frowned more deeply, even as he went on, "He is kin to the Lady Galadriel."

"He is not the one of whom I speak," she said, "I know not the name, nor heritage of that one. Fine and fair of face, but…" Trailing off, she shook her head once more, before she said, "You will see him at this evening's feast."

He shook his head, apology coloring his every breath as he said, "I am recalled, Celyn."

"You cannot even stay until morning?" she asked, and for a moment closed her eyes as he took up her hand once more and played with her fingers.

"Forgive me," he craved, "even your brother has dismissed me from his service… but I could not leave without…" he swallowed and before he could finish, Celyndailiel reached out to cover his lips with the tips of her fingers. Her hand trembled against his skin.

"U-pedo i phith anim," she whispered. "Er dadweno anim ir gerich."

"If ever it were within my power," he answered, desperation clear in his tone, and she could not help but wonder – dread – what it was she had prevented him from saying; from telling her. As if he sensed the nature of her thoughts he added, "But if _ever_ you should have need, Lady Celyndailiel…"

_Lady Celindailiel… so formal._

The thought was as a thorn that lodged deeply inside of her, and in denial she refused to hear the unspoken message it contained – that he would not… _could_ not return to her, except perhaps in direst need.

He stood then, and still holding her hand he drew her with him to her feet. For several breaths she saw torment in his eyes.

"I cannot delay," he said, and lifted both her hands to his lips to bestow the fervent softness of a kiss to her knuckles, before cupping her cheeks in the warmth of his palms. Her heart sped, her pounding pulse became deafening in her ears as he leaned toward her, and she thought he might kiss her.

Instead, he lay his forehead gently against her own, words tumbling from his lips; a river of anguish.

"Remember me in the light of the rising stars glimpsed between greening leaves. Remember me in their trembling at Firith, as the night breezes turn cold and the starlight falls like crystals of ice upon the world; like gemstones upon the moon—"

"Thranduil…"

"—Reno nín i vîl…"

Before she could move or say another word to him, he released her and turned abruptly, and though she reached out to catch his hand, and for a lingering moment his fingers entwined with hers, his hand stretched out behind him as he moved away, still he moved. From the tension she saw in his back she knew that he was resisting every urge to turn back.

Their hands finally parted, and all but tear-blind, fighting with herself not to go after him, not to demand of him what, in her heart, she suspected was the truth, but which – as though her life depended on it – she sought to deny, she watched the light leave her world as he walked away.

** ** **

Though the afternoon was aged toward evening, and most folk were travelling _into_ Lindon and the protection the city offered to weary travelers, Thranduil rode out as one possessed. The stallion beneath him, seemingly in tune with the mood of his rider, ran hard, nostrils flaring and breath snorting as though he were a fire breathing beast of shadow and not a mere equine mount.

As soon as he was able, Thranduil turned their course toward the east, and the darkness there, away from the setting sun – away from the dying of the light – and into whatever perils the night might bring.

He did not care. He would have welcomed ravening hordes of Orcs or Goblins, worse.

It had taken every last vestige of his self-control to walk away from Celyndailiel, when he could _feel_ every fiber of her existence – and his own – calling for him to deny his father, to ignore the peril stalking Middle Earth and to indulge, this _one_ time the true desires of his heart, but his conscience… his sense of duty and the sure knowledge that those pressures would only taint the purity of their affections, each to the other, made him embrace the agony of walking toward a future without Celyn as a part of it.

Yet it tore him apart. With the passing of moments his anguish became anger, but a cold, smoldering fire which he turned upon the stable hands as he barked commands at them to ready his mount, and upon the night watch as they challenged him upon the road. He was so lost in his resentment that he did not see the lone elf, standing atop the city walls, watching his passage as he left in such haste, nor feel the touch of strangeness in the air that followed that scrutiny. He simply ran, as a wounded animal, words from what felt like a distant past that was no longer even his echoed in his thoughts.

_Battle now, and you will spend your life in conflict and war. Will you not spare yourself?_

Night fell around him, and still he rode, slowing only when the horse stumbled and in concern for the beast, his temper cooled. It was a long journey – several weeks of travel, and he could ill afford a lame or ailing mount, no matter that he might refresh the stallion at one of many outposts along the way. He rode more slowly, trusting the eyes of the horse as his own blurred – finally – with tears of loss, and as the moon set late in the night, he dismounted. He walked beside the stallion, picking their way carefully over the loose ground as they made their way through passes over Ered Luin, his gaze drawn up to a single bright point still shining strongly in a sky as black as despair.

"Ai… Varda Elentari…." he whispered, "If it is ever within your power to spare her this _emptiness_ , this pain, then let it be so. Let _me_ bear the whole of it, and leave her untouched… unbowed… unbroken."

A weight, as though some heavy shroud fell over him, settled on his shoulders. As he walked on, the star on which he kept his sight fixed, winked at once bright, now dulled as the scudding clouds sought to muffle Her brilliance. Symbolic, he thought, that the further he moved from Lindon, the dimmer the radiance of the stars overhead, and the more the numbness that was taking him became a part of him; a part of his journey, and did not lift until his eyes beheld the first boughs of the great green beech trees. Then the ancient boughs drew him in to the dawning reality that he must face his father; give his answer, acquiesce to the demands the King of his own people made upon him. If this were what it meant to be a prince, then may the Valar make of him a mere pauper, a commoner that might best follow his own heart.

At that thought, his anger, muted by the weeks' long journey homeward, banked as a hearth-fire, kindled its first, renewed spark.  The stallion beneath him snorted and pawed at the ground, as if he too were impatient to see an end to the wondering – to have the matter out and open, his feelings made plain even if there were little they could do to divert his father's steering of his course.

He shook the reins, turned the horse's head southeast toward Amon Lanc and his father's capital, laying low across the stallion's neck to avoid the branches and urged the him to greater speed, giving the beast his head. Too soon he heard the horns heralding his arrival, and sooner yet afterward drew to a halt and slid from the saddle, tossing the reins to the running young groom that came to meet him, ahead of his father's steward.

"Well met, and welcome home, Prince Thranduil," the elf said with a low bow, but etiquette and niceties be cursed beyond the doors of night to keep company with Morgoth. Thranduil growled in response.

"Where is my father?"

"He awaits your pleasure in his inner study," the steward replied.

"Pleasure be damned," he spat. "See to it that none disturb us. Not unless the very _walls_ of this fortress should fall around us let _any_ dare enter those chambers until I am done with him."

"As you wish, Hir nín."

He did not wait for further comment, simply made his way to his father's study, pushing open the door and entering without leave, and announcing his presence to his father with a terse retort.

"How _dare_ you!"

"Spare me your wrath, Thranduil.  It is neither welcome, nor justified," Oropher said and rose from his seat to cross the room to another table where a decanter of wine stood behind two silvered, gem encrusted goblets. He poured two generous measures of the deep amber liquid as Thranduil's frustration and anger peaked and he fought to keep his trembling limbs still.

Goblets in hand, Oropher turned and came toward him, holding out one of them, and in answer to his visible anger said, "Your journey has wearied you, ion. Rest yourself, take refreshments."

Thranduil made no effort to take the goblet and after a moment, his father set it down on the desktop beside where Thranduil stood. As Thranduil remained, saying nothing further, and willing to say nothing until he had an answer to his challenge, his father's expression hardened from the mild tedium he had worn into an uncompromising surety that served only to push Thranduil further toward fury.

"I dare because Greenwood has need of your service to secure the alliances we need to ensure our safety." Oropher said, and took a sip of his wine, before with a sigh he instructed, "Oh, sit Thranduil, before exhaustion claims you."

"I have _no_ wish nor need to sit," he said, cutting off each word.

"Fine then," Oropher snapped, "As you please – stand, but you _will_ comply with my wishes and you _will_ be the instrument of our alliance between Greenwood and Cuivienen. In _that_ at least, I leave you no choice."

"You leave me no—" Thranduil began, strangling the words a moment after as his anger bubbled over; his words less than respectable as he expressed his feelings. "You have recalled me from the court of the High King with talk of necessary alliances to provide to the safety of Greenwood when we already _have_ such an alliance in our friendship with Gil-Galad, and out of _spite_ – sheer spite – you disapprove of my growing affections with the Lady Celyndailiel on the grounds that she is of Noldorin descent, yet now you would have me _bind_ myself to some Avari bitch? No! I cannot, I _will_ not acquiesce to some—"

Faster than he could ever recall his father moving, Oropher tossed aside the goblet in his hand and moved his way, and before he could react, Thranduil felt the vice of his father grasp about his arms, an instant before the breath was driven from him as his back connected with the stone of the wall.  He struggled, without effect, as Oropher pinned him in place, choking off the breath from his lungs with a forearm pressed across his throat.

"Did you ride through Eryn Galen with sightless eyes?" Oropher growled through clenched teeth, "Did you not _see_ the new cairns laid over the dead; the destruction of our stronghold here at Amon Lanc?" Thranduil frowned, at his father's words the hints of images he had seen but did not registered passed before his eyes, and he realized that in his own misery he _had_ not realized the distress evident in his own homeland. Still it did not excuse his father's demands; his expectations, even as the elder elf went on. "Scores of Orc, goblins and other foul creature encroach daily upon our kingdom, and in the far east a greater gathering of fell beings, pour out of Rhun without opposition."

He pushed Thranduil once more against the rough stone of the wall, before releasing him, turning to walk a step or two away and then he turned back abruptly to point a finger that trembled in anger directly at Thranduil's face.

"So yes… you can, and you _will_ give yourself to this union, and _willingly_ so with the good grace of your bearing, for her people have sworn aid and obedience to me, and to Greenwood, under such an arrangement, and the Valar know it is little enough sacrifice I ask of you in order to keep our people safe, and since we stand as buffer to the lands west, your actions will afterwards protect your _precious_ Noldorin friends!"

"You… had…" Thranduil persisted, "…no right to make such an arrangement in my name."

His voice was thick with the storm of emotion that boiled inside of him, caught as he was on the logic and the sheer unfairness of the argument his father had forced upon him.

"I am no mere adolescent, nor just come of age to be _ordered_ or forced by guilt, into a match contrary to the light in my heart. You _know_ how I feel about Celyn," he said.

"And even before you allowed those feelings to grow, _you_ knew that I disapprove of such a dalliance." Oropher said. "You have _only_ yourself to blame for this misbegotten pain. Now you must set aside feelings that you cannot allow, and give yourself to your rightful duty. For in a matter of days she will be here, her noble parents beside, and sufficient of her people to swell our numbers and garner the safety of Greenwood, and you _will_ present yourself for the rite of betrothal, or I shall see to it that _all_ of Middle Earth shall know you for a faithless, selfish traitor to your own people, and to the safety of all the Eldar east of the Sundering Sea."

Every muscle tense, Thranduil pushed himself away from the wall, drawing up to his full height, his eyes cold ice, burning as he looked upon his father, and he had never hated him more than he did in that moment. Words to express the myriad hurts and angers that dwelled inside him failed, and the silence grew heavier between father and son, until from somewhere deep within the well of pain he had become a whisper found its way to his lips.

"Faithless, you would name me, and a traitor?" he whispered. "If _any_ of the Eldar ever betrayed the love that dwells within, between a husband and his wife, then _you_ are its embodiment – hiding behind the excuse of saving ones people – when all you really cannot stand is the thought that I might find such happiness as you once shared with my mother. You shame her – and her memory! There is another way – Ereinion would send a host of Eldar should we ask it, for he is not so green as to think that a single people might stand against the shadow still rising in Middle Earth. Instead you would throw away an existing, proven alliance for one with an unknown peoples, with unknown conditions, and unknown allies of their own. You are a fool… Adar, and I will not bind myself to the whim of fools."

He did not wait for his father's rebuttal, but turned his steps and made for the door, his jaw tight as his father's stupor finally faded and Oropher called after him, "You _will_ present yourself, Thranduil.  You will not defy me in this!"

He barely even turned his head as his own steward fell into step with him.

"Welcome home, my Lord," Galion said.

"My thanks, Galion, but I will not remain," he said, "Saddle my horse, I will be leaving within the hour."

"Yes, my Lord. May I ask to where you will travel?"

"No, you may not," he turned then, and looked for a moment almost kindly upon his steward, an elf who had always been faithful, no matter the circumstance. He reached to brush a touch against the other's sleeve. "That way you may not be pressed to answer to my father."

** ** **

Some inner impulse slowed Elrond's steps as he crossed the courtyard, and he turned his gaze up to the walls surrounding the city, and to the lone figure standing there, gazing eastward into the gathering gloom. By the set of her shoulders, and the way her long hair streamed together with her cloak, like a tattered banner, he identified the watcher as the lady Celyndailiel, and knew that still – after the passage of several weeks without even a word – that she still watched, faithfully, for the return of Prince Thranduil.

He sighed softly, and turned his path toward the steps leading up to the top of the wall, calling to mind the hand written note he had found left for him, on the day that Thranduil departed. Short, to the point, direct without being ineloquent, with one clear request. One that until now he was not certain how he might even begin to answer.

He was almost at the steps when he spotted a second figure, walking across the rampart toward where Celyndailiel stood, identifying the elf a moment later as the newcomer, Annatar.

A frown deepened upon his face, and he mounted the steps more quickly, a feeling prickling across the back of his neck, one he could not place but which felt not entirely wholesome. Stepping into the shadows in the lee of the guard post as he crested the stair, Elrond softly murmured words of concealment before moving quietly closer, to where the Annatar came to a halt beside Celyndailiel, to where he might hear the words that passed between them.

"I see you here, my Lady, most every day," Annatar said softly, moving behind Celyndailiel, causing her to step forward, away from him.

"You have been watching me?" she challenged, and Elrond saw that she wrapped her arms around herself, subtly stepping to put even greater distance between them.

"It is only out of concern, Celyndailiel," Annatar said, before adding "I know for whom it is you wait, and my Lady… the Prince of Greenwood, he is not coming back."

Elrond frowned. Annatar had not been privy to the discussion in council concerning Thranduil's recall by his father to Greenwood. He should not have known that the _belief_ was that he would not return to Lindon.

"You cannot know that," Celyndailiel said, her voice brittle. "This is not the first time family duties have kept him long away from court."

"You would know better, my lady," Annatar gave a slight bow of acknowledgement. "Forgive me if I have misspoken, I sought only to—"

Not liking the tone in his voice, nor the way his apparent kindness manipulated Celyndailiel's hopes and fears concerning Thranduil, Elrond moved, stepping from the nearby shadows.

"Lady Celyndailiel," Elrond said quietly, and his sudden appearance appeared to startle her, if not Annatar, and that in itself troubled Elrond more than he cared to acknowledge. For a moment, he almost thought to extend his senses and try to read the other elf on a deeper level than ordinary interactions would allow. His good manners and etiquette prevented him from crossing that line.

He gave an apologetic bow to Celyndailiel before he continued, "Forgive me, I was sent to find you with a message from your kinsman." And with a loaded glance in Annatar's direction he offered his arm to the lady. After only a moment she accepted his offer, and turning to mask their conversation from the other elf present atop the city wall, he told her softly, "There is no message, Celyn. I simply sensed you needed someone to intercede between you and this elf." And then covering her hand that rested atop his arm with one of his own he finished with a tight smile, "I was asked to watch out for you."

"Hanon le, Elrond," she murmured softly. "This is not the first time he has approached me, unwelcome and overbearing."

He nodded, and had suspected as much.

"Wait for me at the head of the stair," he said. "I will escort you back to your apartments."

She nodded and releasing his arm, made her way toward the stairs. Elrond turned back, and came to where Annatar waited, apparently calmly, beside a gap in the rampart.

"You would do well to remember," he warned softly, "that you are a stranger here, with an unknown purpose, unknown connections, and no one that can speak for you."

Annatar half turned Elrond's way, and with an almost amused air asked, "Are you threatening me, Halfelven?"

"Imagine how… mistrustful others might become; how uncomfortable it might be for you in Lindon, and how disturbed Gil-Galad might become were he to discover that you have been harassing his kinswoman," Elrond went on, ignoring Annatar's question, compounding his indirect answer with his continued, soft spoken warning, "And how much news of your unwelcome attentions toward the Lady Celyndailiel would trouble Prince Thranduil."

Annatar did turn fully then, fixing a gaze colder than the heart of winter to the harsher midnight of Elrond's starless eyes.

"You know as well as I," Annatar said, "That the young prince will not return here – or if he does, it will not be to champion the virtue of the king's… kinswoman."

"Stay away from her, Annatar," Elrond growled, turning the frown and the depth of concern at Annatar's words further inward. To his knowledge, but two people besides Thranduil himself, knew of the purpose for which Oropher had recalled him: Gil-Galad, and himself. "Her heart is not for you."

Without another word, and with as much grace as he could muster, he turned and strode back along the walkway atop the wall to where Celyndailiel stood at the head of the stairs, still gazing out over the now darkened landscape, facing to the east.

** ** **

Válinsillúle fought to conduct herself according to all the lessons that had been drilled into her in the last several weeks. She was flanked by her father to one side and her mother to the other – and all of them surrounded by Greenwood guards to escort them to the Audience chamber of the fine Elvish fortress that was the demesne of the Elven King Oropher – and where the rite, and the feast to cement the agreement, would soon be held. She trembled with a strange, excited kind of fear, and her hands, clasped before her, were chilled by the bloodless tightness with which each clung to the other. She made herself keep moving forward with as natural and an almost primal grace as she was able – like white-water spilled over a jagged river bed.

Since coming to Eryn Galen she had heard much, but had yet to lay eyes upon the elf who was the cause of her parents travelling to deliver her into the future that had been decided for her by the unrest and rising shadow in her eastern homeland, and by her elders' wisdom in knowing the best course to counter it, but as she approached closely enough for her elven eyes to properly take in the appearance of the father, her breath grew shallower still.

Oropher was upright and golden, like a great beech in Yávië. From across even this great distance she could sense his unyielding control, the sharpness of mind behind the strategic protection her father had explained to her as they had breached the outskirts of the great woodland that was to be her new home.

The delegation drew to a halt before the King, and with a gentle brush of his hand against her back, her father propelled her forward, and the Greenwood guard stepped to the side, the curtain opening upon a performance she had been rehearsing in her mind with every step she took – and yet, the son was still not present.

"My Lord Oropher," she pitched her voice low, concealing her nervous uncertainty, and dipped a low, slowly executed curtsy by way of greeting.

Oropher rose with equal grace to his feet, to catch her hand and raise her to hers once more.

"No, my Lady Válinsillúle," he said, and inclined his head over their now joined hands. "It is _I_ should greet _you_ … and apologize for the absence of my son."

** ** **

Thranduil seethed.

Days spent in search of both woodland, plains and parchment had yielded no solution to, nor path away from the cornered, blind alley into which he had been maneuvered, either by the clever sophistry of his father, or by – as he was hatefully coming to suspect – by a blending of those lies, and the truth of the growing threat to the safety of Middle Earth.

In other circumstances he might have felt honored to think that he – his actions – stood between peril and lasting peace, but as he stood, allowing Galion to array him in his finest robes and twist his hair into a soft braid to hold the Prince's crown in place upon his head, beneath his unfathomably cold anger, he felt nothing but pain. Pain of loss… pain of guilt… and a false calm that belied it all, and made of him an aloof, imperious, but pale reflection of the elf he had grown to be.

"You have the letters?" he asked Galion once his steward stepped back to survey his handiwork.

"Yes, my Lord," he said, and Thranduil heard the sorrow in the other elf's voice.

He shook his head.

"I am in the hands of the Valar now, Galion," he said softly, "And it is you, and Lord Elrond – for so I name him – who stand as shields against the winds of fate to her heart. I would trust no others."

"My Lord," Galion acknowledged his words with a low bow, which Thranduil acknowledged with one of his own.

"Come then, stands as witness for me in this, so that you may report truly upon that which comes to pass today."

He turned then, and from the desktop picked up a small gilt-edged, wooden box, and together prince and steward walked in solemn procession, with his personal guard as escort, to meet with the delegation from Cuivienen.

He took in the sight of her as he entered the throne room. Slender, of medium height for one of their race, her hair, though braided in complex form, hung draped about her shoulders, to her lower back, like a dark cloak which – against the moon-like paleness of her skin – shone almost blue-black, as a raven's wing and was striking against the pearly fall of the gown in which she was clothed.

Acting according to perfect etiquette, he paused to bow to his father, and then to hers, before handing off the box he carried to Galion, and offered his outstretched, upturned hands to young elf before him – for young she was.

"Hiril nín," he said, allowing himself one last moment of private churlishness, "Gohenno aen u-suilannen le." He saw her jaw tighten slightly and knew his impressions and suspicions had been correct. So isolated in the east were her people, that the Sindarin he used was foreign enough to her that she had to concentrate to understand his meaning. He knew his father would not, however, and went on, "Heriant nín lui laew nuitha nín o be iest nín."

Still concentrating, she slipped her hands into his, allowing him to deliver the required bow of greeting over their joined hands, and after longer still she said in a low, soft voice that held the barest of tremors, "Duty, Prince Thranduil, is important to obey and I would find no fault in you for that to which we must all be some time bound."

Her words penetrated his too fragile shield, and he swallowed down a flare of pique and guilt that mixed and curdled in his breast.

_This is not her fault._

A breath, and he released her hands and still ignoring his father said softer still, as he swallowed the agony the next several minutes made to grow inside of him like a cancer, "Let our assembled peoples bear witness then, to our duty, my Lady."

He switched seamlessly to the ancient Quenyan tongue of their shared heritage. At his words, the Lord of Cuivienen stepped forward, slipped a soft silk pouch into her hands, and Galion shifted at his side, moving the now opened box to within his reach.

There, nestled on a bed of velvet within the box lay a single, silver ring, made of the tiny shapes of woven leaves and vines.

When next Válinsillúle spoke, the tremor in her voice was unmistakable. She unwrapped the contents of her pouch and reaching out a trembling hand, supported that of Thranduil which he gave into hers before he could falter in his duty.

"I am Válinsillúle of Cuivienen, and by this token I give myself to your keeping, in promise that after the turning of the sun's wheel a whole years hence, you and I shall meet in an appointed place and time, and to you, I will give the whole of me, through death and beyond."

The weight of the silver ring – interlocking flowers floating atop curling waves – that she slipped onto Thranduil's hand threatened to be his undoing, and it took all of his resolve not to snatch his hand away and tear off the offending betrothal band.

Instead he turned and lifted the ring from the box, and taking her chilled fingers into his palm said in a voice weighted with destiny, "I, Thranduil of Eryn Galen, give myself unto this promise, to meet no sooner than one year from now, at such time to take to wife, Válinsillúle of Cuivienen."

For several beats, he faltered as his heart squeezed painfully in his chest, then strength of will moved his hand to ease the woven leaf ring onto her finger – the hall around him fading from awareness as all sense or reality crumbled around him, and in the innermost voice of his very soul he begged:

_I know no other way to save the all the world from falling to a second darkness. Forgive me, Celyndailiel… Forgive me, my heart._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Estel nan ind maethant dîr ir he geri ta pîn, a di castad mae – trust is a hard won feeling when she has so little of it, and with good reason.
> 
> Hiril – lady
> 
> Mae govannen – welcome
> 
> Hanon le – thank you
> 
> Caro dadwenant lín – take your leave [Lit: make your return]
> 
> o Eryn Galen – of Greenwood
> 
> ad galu nín gwae na le – and my blessings go with you
> 
> U-pedo i phith anim – don't tell me [Lit: speak not the words to me]
> 
> Er dadweno anim ir gerich – only return to me when you can
> 
> Firith – season of 'fading.' The 54 day Elvish season between Autumn and Winter.
> 
> Reno nín i vîl – remember me kindly
> 
> Yávië – 54 day Elvish season of Autumn
> 
> Gohenno aen u-suilannen le – [deliberately untranslated for effect]
> 
> Heriant nín lui laew nuitha nín o be iest nín – Duty often prevents me from doing as I would wish.
> 
> The quotation at the head of the chapter expresses the sentiment uttered by Amroth concerning the state of Nimloth's (and also Celyn's) worries.


	18. Na man vedim o sí?

 Chapter Eighteen

Third Age of Middle Earth - 2840

 

_Lavo nin calya i vad o lin_

He lay still and silent like the deepest of pools, his breathing rose and fell with a calm that he had not felt in millennia, notwithstanding the heart-deep sorrow he felt in a bond of empathy with the young elf still in his arms, who had wept herself into an exhausted stupor.

Moving slowly, though he need not have troubled himself to do so for little stirred the precious light that lay with her head pillowed on his shoulder, he reached to run a tender touch through her hair. Fine and soft, it slipped as a sigh through his fingers, the sleeve of his robe against the silk of her dress an echoing exhalation.

"Melethrilen," he whispered on his next outgoing breath, "Na man vedim o sí?"

She murmured softly, wordlessly, and her fingers tightened against his opposite shoulder as though she feared he would let go of her; leave her. He turned his head and pressed the softness of his lips to her troubled brow, maintaining the contact afterward. Breathing her in, and that action realizing his own fear that she might somehow be snatched from his arms once more.

Distant and recent remembrance of such bittersweet need and desperation; healing and harm, each barely held in balance, met and tangled inside of him, and for a moment threatened to drown him.

_It was an act of longing and the flaring of a protective instinct so deeply a part of him that it drove the very essence of his soul. He cupped her face and guided her lips to meet with his. The softness of that beginning turned the whole of him into a passion that was as gentle as the softest spring rain, yet as deep as the Sundering Sea itself.  Need fuelled the embrace, and he took her mouth with his, deeply, intimately, allowing their shared awakening to drive his actions, and she answered – echoed with unreserved  desperation as though she held him as her salvation and without him she would fall. His tongue mapped her mouth, caressing hers; his lips pressed to hers, as he drew her closer and slipped his arms around her to gather her fully against him as he lay her down, following her to hold her, cover her._

_She yielded to his towering strength, wrapping her own, still trembling arms around him, beneath his own, clutching the back of his robes as they both quickly became breathless – opening mentally, each to the other, and her emotions flooded him, and overwhelmed, he drew his mouth from hers, only to bathe the whole of her face and the side of her neck, descending in a series of hot, open mouthed kisses, until a sudden, keening sob broke from her and she pulled at the back of his robes._

_"Thranduil, don't!" she gasped, and many long moments afterwards, even though he slowed to barely nuzzle at her in an handful of heartbeats, she sobbed, clutching at him again, "Stop, please... I cannot… we cannot…"_

_Her words unlocked a deeper memory still._

_**_

_The desperate beat of the hooves changed from the dull thud of a heartbeat as the ground underfoot the handful of horses changed from mossy loam to the steel strike of shoe upon rock, and they rode into the barely constructed courtyard of Imladris._

_Grooms rushed out to meet them, as bruised and bloodied as the incoming riders, but none touched Thranduil's concern as he threw himself from the saddle, tossed the reins to the nearest elf and with steps that were unseemly in their haste and pulled at each and every bruise and scrape and cut his body wore, he reached an inner garden almost blindly – seeing only her light._

_"Celyndailiel…"_

_His eyes raked over every inch of her, noting the bulge in her bodice where the bandage she wore betrayed that she too had been spared nothing in the desperate flight from Lindon to Hithaeglir. The distance closed as she turned, her face pale; her eyes sunken, her cheek bruised._

_A deep anger blossomed inside, mingled with the love he held, and need he denied for duty's sake, and before he could catch the emotion he crossed final space between them, capturing her face between palms more gentle than the impulse with which he held her; drew her face to his as he stooped, and with a desperation born of fear, and hope realized, kissed her – pouring into the contact the whole of his tortured, trembling soul._

_For a moment, a sweet and blessed moment in their shared history, she acquiesced, then mirrored his passionate need and denial of their enforced separation. The taste of her was sweet in his mouth, her desire sweeter still to his soul, and he ran his fingers into her hair, the silken strands of it tangling in the roughness of hands still bloodied and roughened from battle, and he moved, taking her back toward the nearby pillar of a breezeway that might shield them from prying eyes._

_Then the illusion broke, as his forearms bore the brunt of the sudden press of their bodies against the stone, the arms she had wound around him tensed and tugged at the back of his cloak – and she tore her mouth from his… a sob breaking from her with the action._

_"Thranduil, don't!" she wept, "Stop please… I cannot…_ we _cannot…!"_

Nienaniriathlim-who-was-Celyndailiel whimpered softly, as though she too shared the memory, and he eased the tightness of the hold he had wound, unknowingly, around her, and murmured softly, trying to comfort.

"Ssssh, my heart," he said, "It is but a dream."

"Not a dream," she whispered back, surprising him, for he had thought her still lost to the exhaustion of sorrow. "A memory… and a sorry one at that."

He drew back enough that he could look down into her upturned face.

"It is a time long past," he assured her, "and cannot harm us more."

She shook her head.

"How did we ever allow ourselves to be bound by such folly?" she asked and reached to where his hand had come to rest against her shoulder. Her slender fingers slid over his; over the marriage ring that graced the index finger of his right hand, an intricate tangle of white gold that cradled the large star opal that felt warm where it rested against his finger. After a moment longer he turned his hand to catch her fingers, teasing the tips of them with his own.

"The folly was mine, Celyndailiel," he said softly, barely above a whisper. "And _I_ bound us to it. I should _never_ have acquiesced to my father's demands, nor allowed the pressure of duty and fear to blind me to alternatives. Forgive me."

"There is nothing—" she began, but anticipating what she would have said he cut off her words with a soft argument.

"I hurt you."

"No," she said. "You had no choice. You speak of alternatives, but there were none. We…"

She faltered, then her fingers suddenly tightened upon his. He called her name softly – both of them – but her only answer was to turn and bury her face against his shoulder once more, clinging to him, trembling, as if the moment of clarity had flown and she had lost herself again.

** ** **

Uncharacteristically, he misstepped and stumbled, catching himself on the railing of a nearby stairway. As he looked up, overlaid on his vision of Rivendell's gardens, the shaded, encircling, clear path that surrounded the white doe resolved before him, as if a reflection in rippling water, and even as he watched, the doe became entangled in the seven familiar, creeping vines. The red was the last and slowest moving, but the one against which the doe struggled hardest.

She bellowed as though in mortal agony, and Rivendell shattered before him…

_The Silver Lady cried out, her pain took shape and pieces of it fell like glass caught in blazing sunlight, diamond-like white gems, only more precious yet. They fell like rain, as the light coming from within her pulsed in time with her cry, until she was silent and shadow claimed the light, and the Lady, spent, slumped into Thranduil's arms, as all around them, gold and red clad elves crumbled to the dust of the shifting vision, blowing away on the sudden, fierce wind._

_Fire colored the gemstones and still they tumbled, like droplets of blood. A knife held in a trembling hand thrust forward, stabbing again, and another's pain burst through the middle of his back. The light still fading in the Lady's eyes, and soundless words uttered in a horror of betrayal._

_"I trusted you… loved you.  Why?"_

_Anger… boiling and wretched flooded his every sense – and a pain, a loss, indescribable…_

The force of it drove Elrond to his knees, his grip on the railing faltered, and he began to slip sideways, trembling as the cold of the lingering darkness stole over him.

"My Lord, Elrond!"

"Adar nín!"

The familiar voices began to pull him back from the edge of vision, the edge of madness, and he drew a labored breath as the light of the Eldar began to flow through him again, the arms of his son closing around him, and to his other side, the strong grip of a familiar hand slipped beneath his arm, helping Elrohir draw him to his feet.

"I'm all right," he breathed, pushing ineffectually at the two elves holding fast to his safety. "I'm all right."

"Pardon me, my lord, but I beg to differ," Glorfindel argued softly, and to Elrohir said, "His study is closer than any other room. We will take him there."

"No," he said, the peril and the fear of it lending his objection the strength that he really did not possess. "He must be warned… I cannot linger."

Pushing harder, he managed to free himself from their grasp, and he turned unsteadily, calling for Lindir.

"Saddle my horse," he ordered as the Elf appeared at the foot of the stairway down which Elrond began to lurch.

"My Lord?" Lindir's expression was concern and confusion, and he glanced past Elrond toward the elder Elf who once more reached for Elrond's arm.

"Elrond give yourself ti—"

_Stop him… Indmathen, lau!_

Elrond froze at the sound of the voice on the breeze – or was it but the breeze of his mind? Glancing to Glorfindel and Elrohir he saw that they, too, had heard.

"But…" he stammered, a warmth and anguish both taking the place of the fear and urgency placed upon him at his vision. "How…? Why…?"

_I did not send you this vision to send you running to Lasgalen in peril of your life… I sent it for my love of you… That you might know and understand what I have foreseen all this time._

Her voice in his mind after so long… _so_ long was the sharpest knife cutting out the heart of a darkness he hadn't even reconciled was lodged inside of him. He opened his mind to embrace her presence, barely aware that Elrohir and Glorfindel had taken him by the arms and were leading him back toward his study.

_…Celebrian…_

He all but sang her name as a half-sob, and the breath of her confirmation caressed his mind. He knew she had felt his most terrible, intimate doubts.

_Forgive me, my soul. My decision to leave was never a reflection on my love for you. Do not_ ever _doubt it… it was to survive – to survive darkness like_ this _that I could no more remain in Middle Earth. Send him warning, Indmathen. There are wheels within wheels turning; blades around blades. But you cannot go yourself. You_ must _not._

Her voice, and the strength of her presence in his mind; her touch within his heart faltered, began to fade.

_Do not leave… please…_

_I cannot linger. I have already said too much._

"Celebrian…" he whispered her name as her touch faded to the almost imperceptible awareness that her heart still beat, and her soul still inhabited the undying lands of Aman. One last thought remained, like a shadow in the brightness of a sunny day.

_Warn him… but do not, yourself, set foot upon the sovereign land of Eryn Galen… else all of Middle Earth, all of Arda itself shall be imperiled… promise me… promise…_

It cut him to the core that he could not… and the waters of his weeping for it scourged his face. He put his head into his hands and through his anguish barely heard Glorfindel send Elrohir away.

** ** **

The Orc, unfortunate enough to have survived the skirmish with the patrol of Elves, struggled as hard as he could, his claws scrabbling against the ground in an effort to stop the Pale One from dragging him further into the fell fortress.

His efforts were ineffectual. The pale Orc was far too strong and far too determined to bring him before their master.

Malice left the air within the ruined walls stifling, and the Orc all but whimpered as the Pale One tossed him to the edge of a ledge on which they came to a halt. A moment later the air crackled and shimmered as if in a searing heat, and a shadowed figure resolved itself nearby and with a measured glide, came their way.

_"Where is the young one?"_

"The patrol this one led found her not at the hovel."

_"You let her… escape."_

"No… no!" the trembling Orc redoubled his struggles in the Pale One's grasp, trying to avoid the shadowy arm that reached his way.  Panic colored his voice, and he pointed at the pale Orc. "We did as he told us.  We did _his_ will! We—"

Abruptly his protest came to a strangled halt, his body lifting, already twisting in the wracking pain that flowed through him. The Pale One backed away.

_"He voiced_ my _will!"_

The shadow howled about the stricken Orc, his cries became a shriek as the darkness seemed to strip the very flesh from his bones; his mind, his memories, melted away – becoming nothing as he paid the price for their continued failure. What was left of him dropped as a quivering heap to the stone of the ledge, a dark stain upon the mossy stone.

The power of malice focused again as the shadows coalesced once more, almost stalking the pale Orc as he backed further and further along the ledge. He knew sooner or later he would corner himself in the remains of the broken fortress, but he did not dare allow his master to catch him; he could not become only another stain in testament to the ill that dwelled there.

_"Find her…"_ The whisper was a sickening threat that chilled every part of him, body and soul. _"Bring her… to me…"_

"We… we know not—"

_"Greenwood… halls…"_

His heart clenched. If she were there then it would take an all-out assault to wrest her from the care of the Elf king; an assault for which they did not have the strength. And yet this power would not be denied.

As if to echo his thought, the dark voice whirled around within his mind, chilling him still more.

_"She_ will _be mine…!"_

** ** **

Clouds drifted away from covering the sun, and light winked against the silver of the rings that used to be her mother and father's wedding bands. Nieniriathlim sighed, fighting down the rising sorrow that threatened again to engulf her, and sat back on her heels. She drew the cloth that rested on the ground nearby into her lap, and wiped the soil from her fingers.

In the days since discovering her parents' death, and of the truth trembling, still, beneath the too-slow-to-clear fog of her memory, of her own identity, she had found some measure of peace in taming the overgrown areas of the gardens of Greenwood; pouring all of her emotion, her confusion into the earth and the plants that gave her a sense of growing connection with the land.

And yet, at times, the trembling pressures of the present and all that she felt, all that she was, broke through the meditative calm, like now, as she twisted her parents' rings, which she wore upon the middle and ring fingers of her left hand, and ran the pad of her thumb over the emptiness on the index finger of her opposite hand.

"Thranduil…" she whispered, "…Arasfain…"

_She fled to Lindon's gardens. Though Elrond had forewarned her – though in truth the warning hadn't been necessary, for she knew in the manner of his parting from her that his recall to Greenwood was not simply to dance attendance upon his father – the sight of the silver waves and flowers, the ring upon the index finger of Prince Thranduil's hand, and the continued formality between them had been almost more than she could bear._

_It was not long that he had stayed at court, and they had barely spoken, but if the manner of their social interactions during his stay had distressed her, the realization that she could no longer read him – which had once been as simple as drawing breath to her – had brought her to the very threshold of despair._

_"Thranduil…" she whispered, "…Arasfain…"_

_And kneeling beside the flower bed that had been the object of her attention in the last several days, she threw herself into gently removing weeds from between the delicate seedlings, becoming lost in the repeated action, and communion with the new life growing in the wake of hers – which seemed to her to be in decline._

_"Why do you linger here in the pain of vain hope, Lady Celyndailiel," the voice was as the hiss of a breeze through corn left too long in the fields in Lavas, "when there is one who would have the whole of you?"_

_She drew a sharp breath, and looking up scrambled to put the flower bed between the both of them, her eyes darting one way and another in search of Elrond… her brother's guards… anyone…_

"Avo!" she gasped, and returning to herself realized she had snatched up the cloth on which she had cleaned her hands and held it before her as a shield.

"My Lady?"

She looked up, to find that the shadow that had fallen across her was that of the Lady's maid that the king had assigned to her, and not, as she had expected, and feared, the shining figure of a tall Elf.

"A stray thought," she breathed uncertainly, "Or memory I—"

She broke off, shaking her head, then looking around her she noticed that the sky had begun to darken toward evening. She gave the maid a smile equal to her breathing, and asked, "I am expected? Overdue?"

"No, my Lady, though…" the maid trailed off, an embarrassed expression on her face.

"Though?" Niena prompted. "Tell me."

"The king sent word that I was to come to you." She knelt beside Niena and reached up with a familiarity that surprised her to lift away several stray strands of hair from her cheek, which she smoothed behind her ear.  It brought a flush of a bittersweet warmth through Niena. "How he knew, I cannot say, only…"

_"But if ever you should have need, Lady Celyndailiel…"_

Whatever the maid had said, Niena did not hear, lost in the realization that, no matter how it had felt to her that day – forsaken, rejected… lost – he too had felt the same pain, only he had masked it better than she.

"Bring me to him," she asked softly, gripping the arm of the maid as they both began to rise, trying not to be too unseemly in her haste, but terrified that yet again the knowledge she held inside of herself would fade once more, and she would fracture, and lose sight of the part of her that was Celyndailiel.

** ** **

"Forgive me," Elrond said softly, as Glorfindel returned to the seat he had pulled up beside him and handed him the goblet of wine. He closed his eyes against the sight of his hand trembling as he took the cup. "Never have I considered the strength of how much I miss her. I simply live with that… ache in my heart day by day."

Glorfindel shook his head.

"My friend, there is nothing for which you need seek forgiveness," he said. "I cannot imagine the kind of void in which you have lived since she left for Aman." He shook his head then, and added softly, "but it is testament to that which she said to you before she left."

_"I will ever be with you, my Golden Heart. It is the pain in Middle Earth I leave behind me, not you. Never you!"_

"She was ever the stronger of the both of us," Elrond answered, Celebrian's words to him ringing in his ears as though she had only just spoken them, so close to his heart and mind that it could have been the day before that his beloved wife quit the shores of Middle Earth for a life without the gray lack of joy that it had held for her since the Orcish attack upon her stole it forever. "Others would have faded – willed themselves into the Halls of Waiting for such that she suffered."

"Does that then not prove the strength of her love for you, Elrond? Do you doubt it?"

"Never," he said with such vehemence that his voice sounded harsh to his own ears. Softening, he said, "I doubt my _self_?"

"Yourself?" Glorfindel asked. "Why?"

"That I could not give her the healing she needed," he confessed softly, "That even now, when she begs me to promise that I will not go to warn Thranduil of that which I have felt, I cannot. Even knowing that my presence in Greenwood could imperil all of Arda, Glorfindel, I could not give that promise.  What is _wrong_ with me?"

"Wrong, Elrond?" Glorfindel questioned softly, then reached out to place the warmth of a touch upon Elrond's still trembling hand as he gripped the arm of his chair. "Listen to me, my friend. You are in an impossible position, knowing… _seeing_ as you do, and with a long held loyalty to Elves who have helped to shape the course of Middle Earth and have paid the consequences of their actions. You know their pain because you are _one_ of them. You are a ringbearer, Hir o Imladris, and have a responsibility to the future of Middle Earth… and yet none see the sacrifices you make."

He sighed softly, and closed his eyes, feeling the weight of all that Glorfindel described settling over him.

"Thranduil must be warned, Glorfindel," he said softly, "His lady is in danger, and with her all of Greenwood. And Eryn Galen yet has a role to play in securing the safety of Middle Earth."

"Then let me go in your stead," Glorfindel said. "You have explained what it is you have seen, and by your word, some of it is already known to the king. Besides – I should like to see this young maiden, returned from Mandos' care with my own eyes."

Elrond could not help but chuckle, a certain bitterness behind the expression of false mirth.

"Anyone would think, my friend, that you had issue with the Lord of Waiting," he said.

"I do," Glorfindel said, and Elrond opened his eyes to catch the almost mischievous twinkle in the other Elf's gaze. "And with all the Valar if this were their doing. To what end should they have placed conditions and caused such anguish to _any_ others? They do little without reason – even when _we_ in Middle Earth cannot see it."

Elrond sipped his wine, then leaned forward to set down the goblet, and with another sigh acquiesced – suddenly weary.

"Very well, Glorfindel," he said. "Take word to Eryn Galen; warn the king of all that we have seen and spoken of. If he needs sanctuary for his lady, Imladris is now, as it ever has been, a haven again shadow and danger. Have him send her here."

"It shall be as you say, Lord Elrond," Glorfindel answered, but Elrond could not help but wonder if Thranduil would listen, or even agree to such arrangements if he did.

** ** **

Thranduil looked up from the book as movement caught the awareness of his vision, he smiled softly to see Nieniriathlim… or was it Celyndailiel… hesitating in the doorway of his private apartments. She wore a soft, silvered lavender gown, and her golden hair lay spread about her shoulders, like the sun herself followed behind to light her to him. His breath caught, his heart grew suddenly loud within his chest.

"Am I interrupting?"

He set down the book and held out a hand, and after a moment she came and slipped her fingers into his.

"Your presence is never an interruption, my lady," he said as he drew her closer. "Tell me only how I may serve you."

He tugged on her hand and, unbalanced, she steadied herself against his shoulder, until with fluid grace he rose to his feet to ease her closer yet. Her fingers slipped from his shoulder, to come to rest beside the stag-head brooch that had been given to him at their first union… given by the one that had been as nurse and companion to Celyn, in the absence of her mother. The thought gave him pause, for here again, returned to him, she stood motherless.

"My Lord?"

At her soft inquiry he realized the thought had clouded his face, and returning the grace of the smile to his features, he covered the hand that still lingered at his chest with his own, and shook his head.

"It is of no moment," he told her softly, turning with her toward the balcony at the side of the room, to cover the lie. With slow steps he led her there, releasing neither hand and ending with her almost enfolded in his embrace as they came to a halt at the railings.

"You were watching?" she asked softly, gazing out over the garden toward where she had been. He shook his head and knew that she had felt the movement, when she turned her gaze back toward him and looked up to him and corrected, "Then you felt my anguish."

Serious… earnest, the mood fell over the both of them like the emerging stars as evening began to fall, and releasing her hands he slipped his fingers either side of her neck, up into her hair, to cradle her face and feel the soft skin of her cheeks against the pads of his thumbs.

"Ui mathan i mboer lin, Celynen," he whispered. "Ever it was, and so it will always be."

"Even when you were not mine to keep?" she asked, and his face creased as he watched the well of emotion flood the pools of her eyes.

"Especially then," he told her, wondering why it was that it was only now that they spoke of that time, and not before, when they had been together, finally, as king and queen. Leaning to rest his chin against the side of her head, still cradled in his hands, he murmured, "And the denial of it was near unbearable, my heart."

"Forgive me," she craved, "I had not meant to rekindle old pains, only I remembered… in the gardens… how once we might ne'er have been, and I—"

"Hush," he whispered, following the soft sound with the barely there bush of his lips to her brow as he drew her away again to look into her face, seeing there the lingering weariness of loss, the loss of her parents.  "It did not come to pass, and you are with me now."

"Am I?" she questioned timidly.  He turned her in his arms then to draw her against him and enfold her in the warmth of his frame, and felt her relax against him with the softness of a sigh, wrapping her arms over the top of his and drawing deeper breaths as though she took strength from being in his arms.  He hoped it were so.

"I barely know myself from moment to moment; the tumble of memories inside me." She tipped her head to look up at him over her shoulder. "Am I with you, Thranduil?"

"Yes."

He breathed the word, and turning her again, extended the light of his being to surround her, draw her mind toward his; her heart to the shelter of his own.

_I would have you take your rightful place at my side, Celyndailiel._

"And I would take it," she whispered in response to the contact of his mind. _...But I am afraid…_

"Afraid?"

She nodded.

"Tell me," he said, and against her slight shiver at the growing chill as the sun set, he guided her along the balcony, and back inside his apartments, deeper yet than where he had found her, to bring both of them to sit in the low chaise that graced the space before the fireplace.  He brought her back into his arms, and she drew up her slippered feet to nestle herself into his side, as he, too, reclined.

"Tell me," he repeated, his voice a strong, but quiet command.

"There is a darkness," she began slowly, haltingly, "that hovers at the edge of my awareness, always has, and in it, I sense all the things in Middle Earth that have kept us, each from the other: betrayal, destruction… war. I fear that I could bring them all to dwell with you – with _us_ – again and yet I know we can never be unless I can find my way through that dark maze – find who I was. But… how?"

"Let me light your way." he said. It seemed to him to be the easiest, the most obvious solution.

At his words she uncurled enough to look up; reached up, and ran her fingers, almost timidly it seemed to him, along the edges of the silver curtain of his hair and he turned his head to nuzzle at the touch, before lifting her hand into his.

One by one, he kissed the tips of her fingers, then the palm of her hand, before running his touch along the empty ring finger, where her wedding band one lay gracing the softness of her skin with the power of their shared light. It would again, but not until—

"I miss it," she said as though reading his mind, "The weight of it, though this body has never know its touch."

He drew a deeper breath, coming alive as she freed her hand from his, and drawing _his_ hand to hers, ran the tips of her fingers over the star-opal in his wedding band. Energy, like fire, cracked between them at the caress, and as she looked up, a blush upon the fairness of her cheeks, he dipped his head to take her mouth with his.

The kiss was almost fierce as he began it, but at the tightening of her fingers against his, he eased the touch, reining in his ardor, controlling his passion. The caress of his lips against hers became gentler, slower, but no less intense as he tasted her, encouraged her to return the caress, and surrendered to her exploration of the heated cavern of his mouth, at once familiar and uncertain, each in turn.

Until breathlessness forced a separation they embraced, kissing, pressing closer together, and at the ending of the kiss she lay, trembling against him.

"My light," she said at last.

"No," he argued softly, "You are _mine_ , and these millennia without you have been a well of darkness lit only by the artifice of fire, and lantern light."

"May I stay?" she asked softly, barely audible against the crackle of the fire in the hearth. "Like this… just until morning – for I fear the night alone."

"Then you shall never again spend it alone, my Lady."

** ** **

"Glorfindel of Gondolin, more lately of Imladris," he stood, and began to descend the steps from his throne to greet the elder Elf as befit one of his station, and placing a hand over his heart, Thranduil gave a low, respectful bow. "Mae govannen."

"Well met, my King," Glorfindel answered, dipping into an equally respectful bow, "And know also that Lord Elrond sends to you his highest regards, and regrets his absence."

Thranduil frowned, his curiosity doubly aroused at both the presence of the Elf at his court, and the obviously private message, delivered publicly, that it was at Elrond's behest that Glorfindel came.

"He is sorely missed," he answered, nodding to the other Elf, and then gesturing toward a pathway leading from the throne room, deeper into Lasgalen halls, he commanded, "Walk with me."

He remained silent, as did Glorfindel until they were well removed from open hallways into far more private spaces, ever patient in spite of his curiosity, and was about to ask what message Elrond sent to him, when Glorfindel spoke instead.

"Tell me, my Lord Thranduil, has all been well of late, in your halls, your kingdom?"

He frowned.

"My halls, yes," he answered, "but in the forest beyond, the touch of shadow and the unrest still lingers and grows, creeping ever nearer to my door." Then understanding the source of the question, added, "What has Elrond foreseen?"

"Dangers, My Lord, and many, to you – to your Lady, your family," Glorfindel answered, "and urgent enough that the Lady Celebrian spoke with him from beyond the shores of this land – unprecedented one might suggest."

His frown deepened, "The Lady Celebrian?"

Glorfindel nodded.

"She also gave him warning that he was not to deliver this warning himself, that there was peril to _all_ of Middle Earth should he stray within your kingdom."

"Fell news indeed," Thranduil said, then the deep frown darkened, as he went on, "But is the suggestion that Greenwood cannot protect its own, Glorfindel?"

"Peace, Thranduil," Glorfindel shook his head and appeared to Thranduil, surprised at his forthright familiarity, to be waiting until he looked in his direction again before speaking on. "You have no need to sense threat from Elrond. You know he is ever your ally and good friend.  It is the vision again – the one you share with your lady; the one the Lady Arwen described to you, only… darker, more insidious. He _fears_ , Thranduil, that some greater power, stronger yet than Orc raiders, or goblin hoards that may throw themselves upon the swords of your warriors, may yet test the strength of your stewardship. One bent upon possessing her – or worse."

A brief flurry of anger, mingled with fear made the whole of him feel slow and heavy, and memory flared at the sudden speeding of his heart.

_Once… twice… three times he threw himself against the solid wood of the door, the sounds from within diving him to blinded fury and a terror absent of thought. The door gave as he tried once more, and losing his balance he threw himself into a roll as he burst into the room._

_She was surrounded, turning first one way and then another with a heavy blade that she could barely lift clutched in both of her hands, Orcish iron, that she must have taken from the filthy creature that lay, still bleeding on the floor of her chamber._

_Humans too – men of the east – numbered among those that threatened her, taunting, promising the most unspeakable of assaults at the hands of their 'master.' It could be only one dark soul of whom they spoke._

He growled and turning pushed Glorfindel into the lee of a nearby archway.

"No," he snarled, "I will surrender her to no one!"

"Think on it, Thranduil," Glorfindel's voice was calm against his fearful anger, and he did not struggle, merely resorted to reason, which infuriated Thranduil all the more. "In Rivendell she will be safe from harm, and when all the darkness is purged from this land, _then_ you can bring her home – rule together as once you did."

"And will again," Thranduil snapped and releasing Glorfindel spun away, walked a space and then swung back to pin the other Elf in place with the strength of his anger. "But I will _not_ be separated from her again.  I _will_ not! Surely you can understand that."

"I do… my Lord, I do understand the desire, the need after so long apart to stay together in one place," Glorfindel answered. "But if it came to the choice between a temporary farewell, as I believe once you did, and losing her forever…"

He left the rest hanging, and Thranduil did not need him to complete what he had said, in order to understand the implications.  Still he shook his head.

"I gave her my word, Glorfindel," he said, "I will _not_ send her away again."

Eighteen

Third Age of Middle Earth - 2840

 

_Lavo nin calya i vad o lin_

He lay still and silent like the deepest of pools, his breathing rose and fell with a calm that he had not felt in millennia, notwithstanding the heart-deep sorrow he felt in a bond of empathy with the young elf still in his arms, who had wept herself into an exhausted stupor.

Moving slowly, though he need not have troubled himself to do so for little stirred the precious light that lay with her head pillowed on his shoulder, he reached to run a tender touch through her hair. Fine and soft, it slipped as a sigh through his fingers, the sleeve of his robe against the silk of her dress an echoing exhalation.

"Melethrilen," he whispered on his next outgoing breath, "Na man vedim o sí?"

She murmured softly, wordlessly, and her fingers tightened against his opposite shoulder as though she feared he would let go of her; leave her. He turned his head and pressed the softness of his lips to her troubled brow, maintaining the contact afterward. Breathing her in, and that action realizing his own fear that she might somehow be snatched from his arms once more.

Distant and recent remembrance of such bittersweet need and desperation; healing and harm, each barely held in balance, met and tangled inside of him, and for a moment threatened to drown him.

_It was an act of longing and the flaring of a protective instinct so deeply a part of him that it drove the very essence of his soul. He cupped her face and guided her lips to meet with his. The softness of that beginning turned the whole of him into a passion that was as gentle as the softest spring rain, yet as deep as the Sundering Sea itself.  Need fuelled the embrace, and he took her mouth with his, deeply, intimately, allowing their shared awakening to drive his actions, and she answered – echoed with unreserved  desperation as though she held him as her salvation and without him she would fall. His tongue mapped her mouth, caressing hers; his lips pressed to hers, as he drew her closer and slipped his arms around her to gather her fully against him as he lay her down, following her to hold her, cover her._

_She yielded to his towering strength, wrapping her own, still trembling arms around him, beneath his own, clutching the back of his robes as they both quickly became breathless – opening mentally, each to the other, and her emotions flooded him, and overwhelmed, he drew his mouth from hers, only to bathe the whole of her face and the side of her neck, descending in a series of hot, open mouthed kisses, until a sudden, keening sob broke from her and she pulled at the back of his robes._

_"Thranduil, don't!" she gasped, and many long moments afterwards, even though he slowed to barely nuzzle at her in an handful of heartbeats, she sobbed, clutching at him again, "Stop, please... I cannot… we cannot…"_

_Her words unlocked a deeper memory still._

_**_

_The desperate beat of the hooves changed from the dull thud of a heartbeat as the ground underfoot the handful of horses changed from mossy loam to the steel strike of shoe upon rock, and they rode into the barely constructed courtyard of Imladris._

_Grooms rushed out to meet them, as bruised and bloodied as the incoming riders, but none touched Thranduil's concern as he threw himself from the saddle, tossed the reins to the nearest elf and with steps that were unseemly in their haste and pulled at each and every bruise and scrape and cut his body wore, he reached an inner garden almost blindly – seeing only her light._

_"Celyndailiel…"_

_His eyes raked over every inch of her, noting the bulge in her bodice where the bandage she wore betrayed that she too had been spared nothing in the desperate flight from Lindon to Hithaeglir. The distance closed as she turned, her face pale; her eyes sunken, her cheek bruised._

_A deep anger blossomed inside, mingled with the love he held, and need he denied for duty's sake, and before he could catch the emotion he crossed final space between them, capturing her face between palms more gentle than the impulse with which he held her; drew her face to his as he stooped, and with a desperation born of fear, and hope realized, kissed her – pouring into the contact the whole of his tortured, trembling soul._

_For a moment, a sweet and blessed moment in their shared history, she acquiesced, then mirrored his passionate need and denial of their enforced separation. The taste of her was sweet in his mouth, her desire sweeter still to his soul, and he ran his fingers into her hair, the silken strands of it tangling in the roughness of hands still bloodied and roughened from battle, and he moved, taking her back toward the nearby pillar of a breezeway that might shield them from prying eyes._

_Then the illusion broke, as his forearms bore the brunt of the sudden press of their bodies against the stone, the arms she had wound around him tensed and tugged at the back of his cloak – and she tore her mouth from his… a sob breaking from her with the action._

_"Thranduil, don't!" she wept, "Stop please… I cannot…_ we _cannot…!"_

Nienaniriathlim-who-was-Celyndailiel whimpered softly, as though she too shared the memory, and he eased the tightness of the hold he had wound, unknowingly, around her, and murmured softly, trying to comfort.

"Ssssh, my heart," he said, "It is but a dream."

"Not a dream," she whispered back, surprising him, for he had thought her still lost to the exhaustion of sorrow. "A memory… and a sorry one at that."

He drew back enough that he could look down into her upturned face.

"It is a time long past," he assured her, "and cannot harm us more."

She shook her head.

"How did we ever allow ourselves to be bound by such folly?" she asked and reached to where his hand had come to rest against her shoulder. Her slender fingers slid over his; over the marriage ring that graced the index finger of his right hand, an intricate tangle of white gold that cradled the large star opal that felt warm where it rested against his finger. After a moment longer he turned his hand to catch her fingers, teasing the tips of them with his own.

"The folly was mine, Celyndailiel," he said softly, barely above a whisper. "And _I_ bound us to it. I should _never_ have acquiesced to my father's demands, nor allowed the pressure of duty and fear to blind me to alternatives. Forgive me."

"There is nothing—" she began, but anticipating what she would have said he cut off her words with a soft argument.

"I hurt you."

"No," she said. "You had no choice. You speak of alternatives, but there were none. We…"

She faltered, then her fingers suddenly tightened upon his. He called her name softly – both of them – but her only answer was to turn and bury her face against his shoulder once more, clinging to him, trembling, as if the moment of clarity had flown and she had lost herself again.

** ** **

Uncharacteristically, he misstepped and stumbled, catching himself on the railing of a nearby stairway. As he looked up, overlaid on his vision of Rivendell's gardens, the shaded, encircling, clear path that surrounded the white doe resolved before him, as if a reflection in rippling water, and even as he watched, the doe became entangled in the seven familiar, creeping vines. The red was the last and slowest moving, but the one against which the doe struggled hardest.

She bellowed as though in mortal agony, and Rivendell shattered before him…

_The Silver Lady cried out, her pain took shape and pieces of it fell like glass caught in blazing sunlight, diamond-like white gems, only more precious yet. They fell like rain, as the light coming from within her pulsed in time with her cry, until she was silent and shadow claimed the light, and the Lady, spent, slumped into Thranduil's arms, as all around them, gold and red clad elves crumbled to the dust of the shifting vision, blowing away on the sudden, fierce wind._

_Fire colored the gemstones and still they tumbled, like droplets of blood. A knife held in a trembling hand thrust forward, stabbing again, and another's pain burst through the middle of his back. The light still fading in the Lady's eyes, and soundless words uttered in a horror of betrayal._

_"I trusted you… loved you.  Why?"_

_Anger… boiling and wretched flooded his every sense – and a pain, a loss, indescribable…_

The force of it drove Elrond to his knees, his grip on the railing faltered, and he began to slip sideways, trembling as the cold of the lingering darkness stole over him.

"My Lord, Elrond!"

"Adar nín!"

The familiar voices began to pull him back from the edge of vision, the edge of madness, and he drew a labored breath as the light of the Eldar began to flow through him again, the arms of his son closing around him, and to his other side, the strong grip of a familiar hand slipped beneath his arm, helping Elrohir draw him to his feet.

"I'm all right," he breathed, pushing ineffectually at the two elves holding fast to his safety. "I'm all right."

"Pardon me, my lord, but I beg to differ," Glorfindel argued softly, and to Elrohir said, "His study is closer than any other room. We will take him there."

"No," he said, the peril and the fear of it lending his objection the strength that he really did not possess. "He must be warned… I cannot linger."

Pushing harder, he managed to free himself from their grasp, and he turned unsteadily, calling for Lindir.

"Saddle my horse," he ordered as the Elf appeared at the foot of the stairway down which Elrond began to lurch.

"My Lord?" Lindir's expression was concern and confusion, and he glanced past Elrond toward the elder Elf who once more reached for Elrond's arm.

"Elrond give yourself ti—"

_Stop him… Indmathen, lau!_

Elrond froze at the sound of the voice on the breeze – or was it but the breeze of his mind? Glancing to Glorfindel and Elrohir he saw that they, too, had heard.

"But…" he stammered, a warmth and anguish both taking the place of the fear and urgency placed upon him at his vision. "How…? Why…?"

_I did not send you this vision to send you running to Lasgalen in peril of your life… I sent it for my love of you… That you might know and understand what I have foreseen all this time._

Her voice in his mind after so long… _so_ long was the sharpest knife cutting out the heart of a darkness he hadn't even reconciled was lodged inside of him. He opened his mind to embrace her presence, barely aware that Elrohir and Glorfindel had taken him by the arms and were leading him back toward his study.

_…Celebrian…_

He all but sang her name as a half-sob, and the breath of her confirmation caressed his mind. He knew she had felt his most terrible, intimate doubts.

_Forgive me, my soul. My decision to leave was never a reflection on my love for you. Do not_ ever _doubt it… it was to survive – to survive darkness like_ this _that I could no more remain in Middle Earth. Send him warning, Indmathen. There are wheels within wheels turning; blades around blades. But you cannot go yourself. You_ must _not._

Her voice, and the strength of her presence in his mind; her touch within his heart faltered, began to fade.

_Do not leave… please…_

_I cannot linger. I have already said too much._

"Celebrian…" he whispered her name as her touch faded to the almost imperceptible awareness that her heart still beat, and her soul still inhabited the undying lands of Aman. One last thought remained, like a shadow in the brightness of a sunny day.

_Warn him… but do not, yourself, set foot upon the sovereign land of Eryn Galen… else all of Middle Earth, all of Arda itself shall be imperiled… promise me… promise…_

It cut him to the core that he could not… and the waters of his weeping for it scourged his face. He put his head into his hands and through his anguish barely heard Glorfindel send Elrohir away.

** ** **

The Orc, unfortunate enough to have survived the skirmish with the patrol of Elves, struggled as hard as he could, his claws scrabbling against the ground in an effort to stop the Pale One from dragging him further into the fell fortress.

His efforts were ineffectual. The pale Orc was far too strong and far too determined to bring him before their master.

Malice left the air within the ruined walls stifling, and the Orc all but whimpered as the Pale One tossed him to the edge of a ledge on which they came to a halt. A moment later the air crackled and shimmered as if in a searing heat, and a shadowed figure resolved itself nearby and with a measured glide, came their way.

_"Where is the young one?"_

"The patrol this one led found her not at the hovel."

_"You let her… escape."_

"No… no!" the trembling Orc redoubled his struggles in the Pale One's grasp, trying to avoid the shadowy arm that reached his way.  Panic colored his voice, and he pointed at the pale Orc. "We did as he told us.  We did _his_ will! We—"

Abruptly his protest came to a strangled halt, his body lifting, already twisting in the wracking pain that flowed through him. The Pale One backed away.

_"He voiced_ my _will!"_

The shadow howled about the stricken Orc, his cries became a shriek as the darkness seemed to strip the very flesh from his bones; his mind, his memories, melted away – becoming nothing as he paid the price for their continued failure. What was left of him dropped as a quivering heap to the stone of the ledge, a dark stain upon the mossy stone.

The power of malice focused again as the shadows coalesced once more, almost stalking the pale Orc as he backed further and further along the ledge. He knew sooner or later he would corner himself in the remains of the broken fortress, but he did not dare allow his master to catch him; he could not become only another stain in testament to the ill that dwelled there.

_"Find her…"_ The whisper was a sickening threat that chilled every part of him, body and soul. _"Bring her… to me…"_

"We… we know not—"

_"Greenwood… halls…"_

His heart clenched. If she were there then it would take an all-out assault to wrest her from the care of the Elf king; an assault for which they did not have the strength. And yet this power would not be denied.

As if to echo his thought, the dark voice whirled around within his mind, chilling him still more.

_"She_ will _be mine…!"_

** ** **

Clouds drifted away from covering the sun, and light winked against the silver of the rings that used to be her mother and father's wedding bands. Nieniriathlim sighed, fighting down the rising sorrow that threatened again to engulf her, and sat back on her heels. She drew the cloth that rested on the ground nearby into her lap, and wiped the soil from her fingers.

In the days since discovering her parents' death, and of the truth trembling, still, beneath the too-slow-to-clear fog of her memory, of her own identity, she had found some measure of peace in taming the overgrown areas of the gardens of Greenwood; pouring all of her emotion, her confusion into the earth and the plants that gave her a sense of growing connection with the land.

And yet, at times, the trembling pressures of the present and all that she felt, all that she was, broke through the meditative calm, like now, as she twisted her parents' rings, which she wore upon the middle and ring fingers of her left hand, and ran the pad of her thumb over the emptiness on the index finger of her opposite hand.

"Thranduil…" she whispered, "…Arasfain…"

_She fled to Lindon's gardens. Though Elrond had forewarned her – though in truth the warning hadn't been necessary, for she knew in the manner of his parting from her that his recall to Greenwood was not simply to dance attendance upon his father – the sight of the silver waves and flowers, the ring upon the index finger of Prince Thranduil's hand, and the continued formality between them had been almost more than she could bear._

_It was not long that he had stayed at court, and they had barely spoken, but if the manner of their social interactions during his stay had distressed her, the realization that she could no longer read him – which had once been as simple as drawing breath to her – had brought her to the very threshold of despair._

_"Thranduil…" she whispered, "…Arasfain…"_

_And kneeling beside the flower bed that had been the object of her attention in the last several days, she threw herself into gently removing weeds from between the delicate seedlings, becoming lost in the repeated action, and communion with the new life growing in the wake of hers – which seemed to her to be in decline._

_"Why do you linger here in the pain of vain hope, Lady Celyndailiel," the voice was as the hiss of a breeze through corn left too long in the fields in Lavas, "when there is one who would have the whole of you?"_

_She drew a sharp breath, and looking up scrambled to put the flower bed between the both of them, her eyes darting one way and another in search of Elrond… her brother's guards… anyone…_

"Avo!" she gasped, and returning to herself realized she had snatched up the cloth on which she had cleaned her hands and held it before her as a shield.

"My Lady?"

She looked up, to find that the shadow that had fallen across her was that of the Lady's maid that the king had assigned to her, and not, as she had expected, and feared, the shining figure of a tall Elf.

"A stray thought," she breathed uncertainly, "Or memory I—"

She broke off, shaking her head, then looking around her she noticed that the sky had begun to darken toward evening. She gave the maid a smile equal to her breathing, and asked, "I am expected? Overdue?"

"No, my Lady, though…" the maid trailed off, an embarrassed expression on her face.

"Though?" Niena prompted. "Tell me."

"The king sent word that I was to come to you." She knelt beside Niena and reached up with a familiarity that surprised her to lift away several stray strands of hair from her cheek, which she smoothed behind her ear.  It brought a flush of a bittersweet warmth through Niena. "How he knew, I cannot say, only…"

_"But if ever you should have need, Lady Celyndailiel…"_

Whatever the maid had said, Niena did not hear, lost in the realization that, no matter how it had felt to her that day – forsaken, rejected… lost – he too had felt the same pain, only he had masked it better than she.

"Bring me to him," she asked softly, gripping the arm of the maid as they both began to rise, trying not to be too unseemly in her haste, but terrified that yet again the knowledge she held inside of herself would fade once more, and she would fracture, and lose sight of the part of her that was Celyndailiel.

** ** **

"Forgive me," Elrond said softly, as Glorfindel returned to the seat he had pulled up beside him and handed him the goblet of wine. He closed his eyes against the sight of his hand trembling as he took the cup. "Never have I considered the strength of how much I miss her. I simply live with that… ache in my heart day by day."

Glorfindel shook his head.

"My friend, there is nothing for which you need seek forgiveness," he said. "I cannot imagine the kind of void in which you have lived since she left for Aman." He shook his head then, and added softly, "but it is testament to that which she said to you before she left."

_"I will ever be with you, my Golden Heart. It is the pain in Middle Earth I leave behind me, not you. Never you!"_

"She was ever the stronger of the both of us," Elrond answered, Celebrian's words to him ringing in his ears as though she had only just spoken them, so close to his heart and mind that it could have been the day before that his beloved wife quit the shores of Middle Earth for a life without the gray lack of joy that it had held for her since the Orcish attack upon her stole it forever. "Others would have faded – willed themselves into the Halls of Waiting for such that she suffered."

"Does that then not prove the strength of her love for you, Elrond? Do you doubt it?"

"Never," he said with such vehemence that his voice sounded harsh to his own ears. Softening, he said, "I doubt my _self_?"

"Yourself?" Glorfindel asked. "Why?"

"That I could not give her the healing she needed," he confessed softly, "That even now, when she begs me to promise that I will not go to warn Thranduil of that which I have felt, I cannot. Even knowing that my presence in Greenwood could imperil all of Arda, Glorfindel, I could not give that promise.  What is _wrong_ with me?"

"Wrong, Elrond?" Glorfindel questioned softly, then reached out to place the warmth of a touch upon Elrond's still trembling hand as he gripped the arm of his chair. "Listen to me, my friend. You are in an impossible position, knowing… _seeing_ as you do, and with a long held loyalty to Elves who have helped to shape the course of Middle Earth and have paid the consequences of their actions. You know their pain because you are _one_ of them. You are a ringbearer, Hir o Imladris, and have a responsibility to the future of Middle Earth… and yet none see the sacrifices you make."

He sighed softly, and closed his eyes, feeling the weight of all that Glorfindel described settling over him.

"Thranduil must be warned, Glorfindel," he said softly, "His lady is in danger, and with her all of Greenwood. And Eryn Galen yet has a role to play in securing the safety of Middle Earth."

"Then let me go in your stead," Glorfindel said. "You have explained what it is you have seen, and by your word, some of it is already known to the king. Besides – I should like to see this young maiden, returned from Mandos' care with my own eyes."

Elrond could not help but chuckle, a certain bitterness behind the expression of false mirth.

"Anyone would think, my friend, that you had issue with the Lord of Waiting," he said.

"I do," Glorfindel said, and Elrond opened his eyes to catch the almost mischievous twinkle in the other Elf's gaze. "And with all the Valar if this were their doing. To what end should they have placed conditions and caused such anguish to _any_ others? They do little without reason – even when _we_ in Middle Earth cannot see it."

Elrond sipped his wine, then leaned forward to set down the goblet, and with another sigh acquiesced – suddenly weary.

"Very well, Glorfindel," he said. "Take word to Eryn Galen; warn the king of all that we have seen and spoken of. If he needs sanctuary for his lady, Imladris is now, as it ever has been, a haven again shadow and danger. Have him send her here."

"It shall be as you say, Lord Elrond," Glorfindel answered, but Elrond could not help but wonder if Thranduil would listen, or even agree to such arrangements if he did.

** ** **

Thranduil looked up from the book as movement caught the awareness of his vision, he smiled softly to see Nieniriathlim… or was it Celyndailiel… hesitating in the doorway of his private apartments. She wore a soft, silvered lavender gown, and her golden hair lay spread about her shoulders, like the sun herself followed behind to light her to him. His breath caught, his heart grew suddenly loud within his chest.

"Am I interrupting?"

He set down the book and held out a hand, and after a moment she came and slipped her fingers into his.

"Your presence is never an interruption, my lady," he said as he drew her closer. "Tell me only how I may serve you."

He tugged on her hand and, unbalanced, she steadied herself against his shoulder, until with fluid grace he rose to his feet to ease her closer yet. Her fingers slipped from his shoulder, to come to rest beside the stag-head brooch that had been given to him at their first union… given by the one that had been as nurse and companion to Celyn, in the absence of her mother. The thought gave him pause, for here again, returned to him, she stood motherless.

"My Lord?"

At her soft inquiry he realized the thought had clouded his face, and returning the grace of the smile to his features, he covered the hand that still lingered at his chest with his own, and shook his head.

"It is of no moment," he told her softly, turning with her toward the balcony at the side of the room, to cover the lie. With slow steps he led her there, releasing neither hand and ending with her almost enfolded in his embrace as they came to a halt at the railings.

"You were watching?" she asked softly, gazing out over the garden toward where she had been. He shook his head and knew that she had felt the movement, when she turned her gaze back toward him and looked up to him and corrected, "Then you felt my anguish."

Serious… earnest, the mood fell over the both of them like the emerging stars as evening began to fall, and releasing her hands he slipped his fingers either side of her neck, up into her hair, to cradle her face and feel the soft skin of her cheeks against the pads of his thumbs.

"Ui mathan i mboer lin, Celynen," he whispered. "Ever it was, and so it will always be."

"Even when you were not mine to keep?" she asked, and his face creased as he watched the well of emotion flood the pools of her eyes.

"Especially then," he told her, wondering why it was that it was only now that they spoke of that time, and not before, when they had been together, finally, as king and queen. Leaning to rest his chin against the side of her head, still cradled in his hands, he murmured, "And the denial of it was near unbearable, my heart."

"Forgive me," she craved, "I had not meant to rekindle old pains, only I remembered… in the gardens… how once we might ne'er have been, and I—"

"Hush," he whispered, following the soft sound with the barely there bush of his lips to her brow as he drew her away again to look into her face, seeing there the lingering weariness of loss, the loss of her parents.  "It did not come to pass, and you are with me now."

"Am I?" she questioned timidly.  He turned her in his arms then to draw her against him and enfold her in the warmth of his frame, and felt her relax against him with the softness of a sigh, wrapping her arms over the top of his and drawing deeper breaths as though she took strength from being in his arms.  He hoped it were so.

"I barely know myself from moment to moment; the tumble of memories inside me." She tipped her head to look up at him over her shoulder. "Am I with you, Thranduil?"

"Yes."

He breathed the word, and turning her again, extended the light of his being to surround her, draw her mind toward his; her heart to the shelter of his own.

_I would have you take your rightful place at my side, Celyndailiel._

"And I would take it," she whispered in response to the contact of his mind. _...But I am afraid…_

"Afraid?"

She nodded.

"Tell me," he said, and against her slight shiver at the growing chill as the sun set, he guided her along the balcony, and back inside his apartments, deeper yet than where he had found her, to bring both of them to sit in the low chaise that graced the space before the fireplace.  He brought her back into his arms, and she drew up her slippered feet to nestle herself into his side, as he, too, reclined.

"Tell me," he repeated, his voice a strong, but quiet command.

"There is a darkness," she began slowly, haltingly, "that hovers at the edge of my awareness, always has, and in it, I sense all the things in Middle Earth that have kept us, each from the other: betrayal, destruction… war. I fear that I could bring them all to dwell with you – with _us_ – again and yet I know we can never be unless I can find my way through that dark maze – find who I was. But… how?"

"Let me light your way." he said. It seemed to him to be the easiest, the most obvious solution.

At his words she uncurled enough to look up; reached up, and ran her fingers, almost timidly it seemed to him, along the edges of the silver curtain of his hair and he turned his head to nuzzle at the touch, before lifting her hand into his.

One by one, he kissed the tips of her fingers, then the palm of her hand, before running his touch along the empty ring finger, where her wedding band one lay gracing the softness of her skin with the power of their shared light. It would again, but not until—

"I miss it," she said as though reading his mind, "The weight of it, though this body has never know its touch."

He drew a deeper breath, coming alive as she freed her hand from his, and drawing _his_ hand to hers, ran the tips of her fingers over the star-opal in his wedding band. Energy, like fire, cracked between them at the caress, and as she looked up, a blush upon the fairness of her cheeks, he dipped his head to take her mouth with his.

The kiss was almost fierce as he began it, but at the tightening of her fingers against his, he eased the touch, reining in his ardor, controlling his passion. The caress of his lips against hers became gentler, slower, but no less intense as he tasted her, encouraged her to return the caress, and surrendered to her exploration of the heated cavern of his mouth, at once familiar and uncertain, each in turn.

Until breathlessness forced a separation they embraced, kissing, pressing closer together, and at the ending of the kiss she lay, trembling against him.

"My light," she said at last.

"No," he argued softly, "You are _mine_ , and these millennia without you have been a well of darkness lit only by the artifice of fire, and lantern light."

"May I stay?" she asked softly, barely audible against the crackle of the fire in the hearth. "Like this… just until morning – for I fear the night alone."

"Then you shall never again spend it alone, my Lady."

** ** **

"Glorfindel of Gondolin, more lately of Imladris," he stood, and began to descend the steps from his throne to greet the elder Elf as befit one of his station, and placing a hand over his heart, Thranduil gave a low, respectful bow. "Mae govannen."

"Well met, my King," Glorfindel answered, dipping into an equally respectful bow, "And know also that Lord Elrond sends to you his highest regards, and regrets his absence."

Thranduil frowned, his curiosity doubly aroused at both the presence of the Elf at his court, and the obviously private message, delivered publicly, that it was at Elrond's behest that Glorfindel came.

"He is sorely missed," he answered, nodding to the other Elf, and then gesturing toward a pathway leading from the throne room, deeper into Lasgalen halls, he commanded, "Walk with me."

He remained silent, as did Glorfindel until they were well removed from open hallways into far more private spaces, ever patient in spite of his curiosity, and was about to ask what message Elrond sent to him, when Glorfindel spoke instead.

"Tell me, my Lord Thranduil, has all been well of late, in your halls, your kingdom?"

He frowned.

"My halls, yes," he answered, "but in the forest beyond, the touch of shadow and the unrest still lingers and grows, creeping ever nearer to my door." Then understanding the source of the question, added, "What has Elrond foreseen?"

"Dangers, My Lord, and many, to you – to your Lady, your family," Glorfindel answered, "and urgent enough that the Lady Celebrian spoke with him from beyond the shores of this land – unprecedented one might suggest."

His frown deepened, "The Lady Celebrian?"

Glorfindel nodded.

"She also gave him warning that he was not to deliver this warning himself, that there was peril to _all_ of Middle Earth should he stray within your kingdom."

"Fell news indeed," Thranduil said, then the deep frown darkened, as he went on, "But is the suggestion that Greenwood cannot protect its own, Glorfindel?"

"Peace, Thranduil," Glorfindel shook his head and appeared to Thranduil, surprised at his forthright familiarity, to be waiting until he looked in his direction again before speaking on. "You have no need to sense threat from Elrond. You know he is ever your ally and good friend.  It is the vision again – the one you share with your lady; the one the Lady Arwen described to you, only… darker, more insidious. He _fears_ , Thranduil, that some greater power, stronger yet than Orc raiders, or goblin hoards that may throw themselves upon the swords of your warriors, may yet test the strength of your stewardship. One bent upon possessing her – or worse."

A brief flurry of anger, mingled with fear made the whole of him feel slow and heavy, and memory flared at the sudden speeding of his heart.

_Once… twice… three times he threw himself against the solid wood of the door, the sounds from within diving him to blinded fury and a terror absent of thought. The door gave as he tried once more, and losing his balance he threw himself into a roll as he burst into the room._

_She was surrounded, turning first one way and then another with a heavy blade that she could barely lift clutched in both of her hands, Orcish iron, that she must have taken from the filthy creature that lay, still bleeding on the floor of her chamber._

_Humans too – men of the east – numbered among those that threatened her, taunting, promising the most unspeakable of assaults at the hands of their 'master.' It could be only one dark soul of whom they spoke._

He growled and turning pushed Glorfindel into the lee of a nearby archway.

"No," he snarled, "I will surrender her to no one!"

"Think on it, Thranduil," Glorfindel's voice was calm against his fearful anger, and he did not struggle, merely resorted to reason, which infuriated Thranduil all the more. "In Rivendell she will be safe from harm, and when all the darkness is purged from this land, _then_ you can bring her home – rule together as once you did."

"And will again," Thranduil snapped and releasing Glorfindel spun away, walked a space and then swung back to pin the other Elf in place with the strength of his anger. "But I will _not_ be separated from her again.  I _will_ not! Surely you can understand that."

"I do… my Lord, I do understand the desire, the need after so long apart to stay together in one place," Glorfindel answered. "But if it came to the choice between a temporary farewell, as I believe once you did, and losing her forever…"

He left the rest hanging, and Thranduil did not need him to complete what he had said, in order to understand the implications.  Still he shook his head.

"I gave her my word, Glorfindel," he said, "I will _not_ send her away again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Melethrilen – my beloved
> 
> Na man vedim o sí – where do we go from here?
> 
> Hithaeglir – Misty Mountains
> 
> Indmathen, lau – 'Goldenheart' no
> 
> Lavas – Elvish season of Autumn lasting 54 days.
> 
> Avo – Do not
> 
> Ui mathan i mboer lin – I always feel your needs
> 
> Celynen – my Celyn
> 
> The quotation at the head of the chapter is Thranduil's plea to Niena/Celyn to allow him to light her way.


	19. Man Na Dholen

Second Age of Middle Earth – 1200-1201

 

_Man hi an Endórë?_

A/N – in order to facilitate greater cohesion in the progress of the story, some events in the have been 'adjusted' in terms of 'when' they are placed in the timeline of Middle Earth for the purposes of this fiction.

 

Spring had given way to a summer that was brooding and sultry, which seemed to Galion to be fitting, as he finally came within sight – and more importantly the sea breezes – of Lindon.

The weeks following Thranduil's betrothal to Válinsillúle had been a near unbearable mix of formal receptions, strategic negotiations and, just before his departure from Greenwood to deliver the letters Thranduil had entrusted to him, the beginning of a northerly migration to the newly built fortifications nestled in the lea of Emyn Duir.

The arguments between Thranduil and his father continued almost unabated, and the prince became more and more withdrawn, unyielding and severe. More and more often he would choose to lead ever more dangerous patrols in _defense_ of his father's woodland subjects, and while it garnered him greater and greater loyalty from among their people, it misgave Galion's heart to see Thranduil so intent on placing himself in harm's way.

Movement: riders coming his way snapped Galion out of his morose thoughts, and his fingers flexed against the hilt of his blade. He urged his horse cautiously forward, maintaining his attitude of watchful awareness, sure to keep his colors visible to announce his allegiance, at least until he recognized the banner that flew at the head of the small group of horsemen. Then approaching more openly he raised his hand in greeting.

"Ai, Rechyn o i daur!" he called out to them, as they wheeled to a halt before him.

"Mae Govannen, Edhel o Eryn Galen," one among them – a voice he recognized – answered, and the ranks shifted to reveal the speaker to Galion's eyes. The hard expression on the face of the other elf faded as they reached close enough to each other to clasp forearms in a more intimate greeting, and Elrond, for so the other Elf was, said, "Too long have your people been absent from Lindon's halls."

"The months have been too long indeed," he said, melancholy weighing his voice heavy with meaning.

Elrond nodded, and as if reading the meaning, yet unspoken, he turned to the captain of the patrol, and instructed, "Continue with your watch. I will return to Lindon with Galion of Greenwood and bring his Lord's greeting before Gil-Galad."

The Captain of the watch nodded obedience, and in a clear voice ordered, "Noro amrûn!"

As one the host of riders turned, and picking up speed with each hoof beat, patrolled onward away from the descending sun.

Elrond sighed, and shifted his horse to ride beside Galion.

"Tell me, my friend, how fares your Prince?" he asked softly.

"Lord Elrond," he began in answer, but Elrond held up his hand.

"Name me not Lord, for I am but a—"

"My _Prince_ names you Lord, Elrond," he argued softly. "And to answer your question, I would a _thousand_ battles had kept him from his homeland this spring past. He is not as once he was."

"The rumors—"

"Are true, as well you know, my Lord," he said, and reaching within his tunic, he pulled out the first of the letters to hand it over into Elrond's waiting hand. "He was recalled to Greenwood by his father to cement the union of Eryn Galen and Cuivienen; a political marriage."

"Who is she, Galion?" Elrond asked, and then stiffened in the saddle. As Galion watched, he frowned and for a moment closed his eyes, turning his head as though concentrating to hear something far distant, before he hissed, "Why cannot I see her more clearly?"

"Lord Elrond?" Galion asked, a frown of confusion creasing his own face.

"I have the gift of foresight, Galion," Elrond said, opening his eyes, "And yet, vision of her is clouded from me. Something is hidden, a veil beyond which I cannot see."

Galion shrugged, but it was to mask the passage of unease that caressed the length of his spine in the wake of Elrond's words.

"Daughter to the Lord King of Cuivienen… she is young; has yet to show her strengths, and yet I see little match in her for Thranduil. Elrond—" He reached over suddenly and grasped the Elven Lord's arm so fiercely that he almost unseated the both of them. "What _sense_ is there in this, and why does he not _fight_ for what you and I both know gives him greater strength; a place in this Middle Earth."

Elrond drew back on the reins, bringing his horse to a halt.

"What, or _whom,_ Galion?" he asked. "There was a second letter. Give it to me, and I will see to it that the Lady Celyndailiel receives it as gently as such news can be given."

Galion hesitated.

"An elleth stands high upon the clifftop, looking out to the ocean and sees no path forward – no future – no way to save those whom she loves from what is about to befall them all."

"Elwing, your mother—"

"It is the future I see, Galion, not the past." Elrond shook his head. "The Lady Celyndailiel is cursed with the same abilities that I possess, though it has yet to fully awaken in her. Imagine one in whom present and future collide suddenly blinded by the searing of her heart. What damage to her spirit? It is _that_ I seek to deflect. Give me his letter to her, Galion."

Reaching once again into his tunic, Galion relinquished the second of the letters, and with it felt the lifting of a great burden, though little relief from the turmoil of sorrow that spun within his heart.

** ** **

Válinsillúle waved away the circling ladies who were insistent on providing for her needs; needs she did not have – for refreshments, comfort, as she sat on a ledge at the top of the walkway surrounding the courtyard.

"Please, I am without needs save to see to my Lord on his return," she said, "see to your own comfort, I insist, you wo—"

At the sound of a hunting horn she came to her feet so suddenly that she collided with one of the maids who had been trying to ply her with water, the content of which splashed against her sleeve.

"Leave me now!" she commanded, trying not to snap as she brushed away the surface water, and made for the wooden stairway leading down to the floor of the courtyard. She was determined to meet Thranduil as he returned from his latest patrol with his personal guards.

Many days of persistent rain had made a sludgy minefield of the courtyard, only made worse by the coming and going of horses, and the back and forth rush of maids and stewards. She lifted her skirts over the worst of the puddles, and at the sudden rush of the incoming horses pressed back against the courtyard wall, peeling away only after the last of the horses had passed, following their flowing tails to where they had come to a halt, where she plucked his riding gloves from the hands of a nearby steward, and ordered softly, "Leave us," to be rewarded with a low bow, and the retreat of the steward.

"It is not necessary for you to meet me from patrol, my lady," he said, and turned his head to her. The harsh blue of his eyes pinned her in place like a spear as he looked on her, and yet as he did, she dipped a small curtsy.

He tossed his horse's reins to a waiting groom, then the warmth of his hand closed around hers, and he drew her to her feet, turning in the same moment to begin walking with her back toward the entrance to the fortified halls wherein the family dwelled.

"And your patrol," she said, by way of ignoring his correction of her attendance upon him. "It was successful?"

"It was," he answered, and as he spoke, seamlessly he let go of her hand from his grasp and even as she wondered at the release, she felt the warmed hardness of his vambrace across her back, before her feet left the ground in what was little more than a long step as he lifted her across a particularly muddy spot on the courtyard floor that lay just before the doorway. She felt her face heat in a blush at the unexpected moment of consideration he had shown to her, and in the same moment, he removed the touch, and took up her hand again in a courtly grip. "You need not fear, my Lady, you are safe within these walls."

"I do not fear, My Lord," she told him, "Save perhaps for _your_ safety."

"Neither is my safety something for which you need fear," he said, and she felt her stomach knot at the response. She tightened her fingers around his and his steps slowed. He signaled as they stepped within the hallway, and as if they had been waiting for them, her maids stepped from the shadows. "I ask you excuse me, Lady Válinsillúle, I must report to my father."

"Of course," she said, barely above a whisper, and he nodded.

"See to your Lady," he told the maids, and to Válinsillúle, added, "Perhaps if the hour is not too late when I have discharged my duties to my father, we might share refreshments."

"It would be an honor, my Lord," she said, enduring the sudden fussing of the maids at her skirts and the water stain on her sleeve.

She offered Thranduil a nervous smile as he nodded to excuse himself from her presence, and watched as he turned away. After barely a heartbeat, she called out, "Prince Thranduil?"

He stopped, and turned back, upright and as unyielding as the tallest of oaks.

"There may be little _need_ for worry," she said, "You may even feel my concerns unwelcome, but… though it is duty that both brought us together and keeps us estranged, I anticipate a time when we might come to better acquaintance. Until that time, I _shall_ worry, with the concerns of your sworn betrothed."

She saw him draw breath deeply, then letting it out slowly, he gave her a low bow.

"I am undeserving," he said quietly.  "Forgive me."

"Until later then," she answered, and dismissed him with a nod of her own.

** ** **

_...never a day shall pass, never an hour when I shall not seek to undo what circumstance, fate, and my father's faithlessness to the memory of my Lady Mother has forced upon me until I have exhausted every possible avenue. My father is wrong._ THIS _is wrong, but coming war – whether now, or years, or centuries hence – has delivered me unto a corner like a duty bound rat within the woodpile._

_As children we grow to the sure and certain knowledge that we and others will know, with a wisdom born to us by the power of the Valar, the freedom of another's heart to come to bind themselves in matrimony with the liberty of soul. That is a lie to me, and though it might be a blasphemy I speak, the Valar themselves stand as near enemies to me now. Once I was warned to look to their hand. I see it now, and I do not understand. I cannot, for the one that is my reason is denied to me._

_I wish I had the words to speak to you that would bring you comfort, rather than to spit vitriol from my quill onto this page that must be a cold comfort to you, my Celyndailiel, but I know you will understand that there_ are _no such words to describe, nor to ease the hurts I have brought to you, and which I will bear my_ self _unto my grave._

_I know too that it is cowardice that I display in having it be by missive that I tell you of my betrothal, and not to stand before you and plead my abjection of sorrow for the state in which I place you. The truth of it is, Melethrilen, were I there with you now, I would more likely sweep you away to some private place and against all objections, surrender my body to yours and taking you unto my own, hang the consequences of such a path. I cannot dishonor you with that responsibility, and fear for the future were I to do such a selfish thing. I have no right to ask of you either your understanding or your forgiveness, and yet still, I ask both._

_Know then only this: my heart grieves. My heart is forever yours, no matter the circumstances, even though my words here, and my demeanor must speak of a bitter farewell._

_Melan le. Im cilan le, dan boe gwedhan enni pen_

_I remain eternally,_  
Orpherion Thranduil  
Arasfain lín.

 

She gripped the arm of the chaise, into which Elrond had guided her, with a hand that held so tightly that the white of her skin grew starker yet against the dark, carved cherry wood, and only by strength of will held herself to stillness against the trembling that raged inside and threatened to tear her to ribbons.

Her sightless eyes turned Elrond's way as he crouched at her side and reached to gently remove the letter from her fingers; set it down upon the nearby table, before taking her hand between the two of his as if to warm the mortal chill that had settled over her.

"Wanwa e annim," she breathed, barely disturbing the air with the shocked whisper with which she formed words, "Wanwa pan telitha enni."

"Celyndailiel," Elrond's fingers tightened around her own. "Listen to me…"

"To what end, Elrond?" She freed her hand, and standing, paced back and forth, one set of fingers kneading the other as she said, "It does not take foresight to know that if this betrothal has been made, and by his word it has, then he may as well already be wed, for no cause will be found to revoke the pledges made – especially not in such times when those of us who love may not be given leave of the Valar to follow our hearts!"

She turned again, and collided with him as he placed himself directly in her path, and caught a gentle hold of her upper arms. For a moment only she struggled to be free, and then instead gripped tightly to the front of his robes.

"Do not deny your pain, my Lady," he murmured softly.

"What good are tears?" she asked, even as her eyes grew hot with those she caged. "If tears are even enough to express such desolation. Will they change anything?  Will they bring him to _my_ arms and not to those of some stranger?"

He did not answer her, simply held her as she gave vent to some of the gathering pain, and the frustration at _herself_.

"No, it will not, and if such tears influence him to recklessness, what then for Middle Earth?  I have lived my whole _life_ in denial for the safety of those of us east of the Sundering Sea, denying my family, sequestered to hide my true identity, and now…? What more will they ask of me? Of _him?_ Of the both of us in the name of duty?"

She felt to silence, breathing hard – the labor of her distress the only sound from within, while from without the sound of breezes and the cries of gulls echoed her sorrowing. When she could bear the silence no longer she whispered, "Say something," to Elrond, imploring his wisdom with her eyes.

He took her hands, both of them, and she looked up at him as he began to lead her deeper into her apartment, dismissing her lady's maids with a simple look.

"My words, my Lady, would be as winter winds, blowing unseasonably in an already frost damaged heart," he murmured softly, and she heard the sorrow clearly in his voice, but denied it – denied him.

"No, Elrond," she said, "Do not hide behind poetry. You have access to the council, without even the fact of your sight, you _know_ the threat of the rising shadow better than any sheltered within the safety of Lindon's walls."

"You believe you are sheltered here, my Lady?"

"Tell me!" she pulled away from his gentle hold and in a rush of emotion brought her hands flat against the planes of his chest. "I have not been a child since before the ending of the First Age. Are the dangers great enough to warrant—?"

"You _doubt_ him, Lady Celyndailiel?"

Elrond's frown crumbled her resolve and repeating the slap of her hands against his chest, this time with greater desperation, she implored, "Never! I only crave the slightest _sliver_ of hope. Can you not understand that? Can you not see?  Can you not—? Can you—? Can…"

The warmth of his arms closed around her as the world spun and fractured around her, and she clung to him. In spite of promising herself that she would not, she wept through the soft murmur of his voice, his words not of comfort, but of warning – which, when she later thought on it, brought her better comfort than would some empty coddling another might have given.

"We stand upon the edge of a storm; a balance about to tip into chaos, and none but few stand firm against a shadow rising like a bloody dawn. For many years I have foreseen the coming of a great upheaval, and until these passing days have always felt we were protected, but the shield has crumbled, my Lady, and you, and I and all of Middle Earth stand at the mercy of shadow…"

"But for…" she tried, and failed to cease her weeping long enough to finish the thought that on instinct she knew she shared with Elrond. "But…"

"But for the sacrifices we make," Elrond finished, and cupped her tear wet cheeks in the palms of his hands, and the touch was as the comfort of a father figure, for all she knew that Elrond was by far her junior.

_Ageless, you are…_ Her mind whispered the truth of it as though the touch of Irmo had passed over them … _for the blood of the Maiar flows through your veins._

"Now is the time for you to walk the hard road of it," he told her, his voice a resonant bell in the quiet of her chamber, and as she looked up at him, she saw his eyes burned with the evidence of foresight. "And you must stand firm, Celyndailiel, or we _will_ fall."

"No," she whispered, feeling a nausea rising in her, and panic – a new pain that threatened to stop her heart. "No… I cannot…  I cannot do this alone."

"You must," he answered simply. "But you are not alone."

_…I have asked Elrond to stand for me in all respects that he is able, to defend and support you when I cannot. Look to him, Celyndailiel, I beg of you, for then at least I shall know; shall feel that I have not entirely abandoned you, who hold my heart as no other. Know, Mîrlosen, that never a day shall pass, never an hour when I shall not seek to undo what circumstance, fate, and my father's faithlessness to the memory of my Lady Mother has forced upon me until I have exhausted every possible avenue. My father is wrong._ THIS _is wrong, but coming war – whether now, or years, or centuries hence – has delivered me unto a corner like a duty bound rat within the woodpile._

** ** **

With an effort belying his skill at horsemanship, Thranduil guided his mount along the winding pathway and into the heart of the Dreaming Wood, tugging the hood of his cloak further over his head against the dripping of the light rain from the thinning canopy above. His attention was only in part on his woodland surroundings, the rest lost – remained behind in Lindon, he would have wagered – along with his still aching heart.

He had seen her, of course he had, at the formal reception he had been unable to avoid attending – ambassador still as he was from his father's realm. She had seemed to him as pale and lost as _he_ felt, and yet nothing had diminished her beauty, nor the strength of the calling he felt from her heart that had all but _shredded_ his in the denial of it.

He leaned further forward over his horse's neck, embracing the fatigue that flowed through his veins in place of his blood. Realizing – uncaring for his own comfort –that he had ridden without pause, save to change mounts at the waypoints, to Lorien from Linden; running from the cruelty of his being there.

"Daro!"

The voice –a single voice he sensed, as fading awareness began to return – startled him from his bitter reverie.

"Daro! Eno imle, núf leitham i philinn!"

Faced with the points of many arrows, he reached upward, slowly, to pull back his hood, and with a tongue thick through lack of rest delivered his greeting equally as slowly.

"Oropherion Thranduil. Tegin suilad od i adar hir nín," he said. "Ad od i aran Ereinion."

As he straightened in the saddle, he noticed for the first time that the speaker that had challenged him first was his beloved friend, Amroth, and noticed too, the look of abject shock upon his longtime companion's face.

"Then you are doubly welcome, my friend," Amroth answered, and signaled once, then all the arrows that had been aimed Thranduil's way were withdrawn, and the Prince of Lothlorien rode forward to clasp his arm in greeting, and to share a softer, more personal greeting. "Morgoth's balls, Thranduil, you look terrible!"

Of the ride into the settlement of the Golden Wood, he could later recall little, nor of his meeting with King Amdir – save that he delivered both his father's message and Gil-Galad's tidings to the king with a kind of mechanical perfection, until the king too recognized his crushing fatigue and had waved a concerned gesture at his son, and Amroth appeared at Thranduil's side to lead him to a quiet chamber away from the bustle of the main flet.

Thranduil stumbled as Amroth all but pushed him onto a low couch, then turned away to retrieve two goblets from a nearby table.

"Amroth," Thranduil began, but his friend held up a hand and then returning with the goblets, pushed one of them into his hand.

"Drink… rest… and do not speak again until you have drained at least half of the wine in that cup," he said.

Thranduil closed his eyes, and breathed deeply of the sweet bouquet before allowing himself to sip at the wine; before taking a larger pull at the ruby liquid. He opened his eyes to find Amroth watching him intently, though his eyes kept drifting back to Thranduil's hand.

"I had hoped," Amroth said at last, "that the rumors I had heard whispered from leaf to leaf were unfounded."

Thranduil sighed, and running a self-conscious touch from his thumb over the warmed silver encircling the index finger of his right hand, opened his mouth to speak, but Amroth held up a hand.

"Drink, I said."

He drank, and again, allowing the alcohol and the fatigue to meet and mingle within him, the warmth with which he became filled unravelled the tension that had accompanied him for so long, the loss of it almost left him feeling incomplete.

"Incomplete," he said, voicing the thought. "The day she set this ring upon my finger, that is what I became… in Lindon, before Celyn, I fractured, Amroth. I do not know how I can do this."

"Thranduil—"

"Not and remain the savior my _father_ would have the world believe I am," he interrupted bitterly. "Savior or traitor to all of Elvenkind. That is what my father would have made of me. _That_ is the ultimatum with which he bound me into a place where I could surrender to his will or become annihilated utterly."

"You chose Middle Earth," Amroth told him.

"I have _forsaken_ the one I chose!" he could not help the rise of emotion – anger and hopelessness met like fire and its fuel and in pique he threw back what remained of the wine and then slammed the goblet down on the tabletop nearby. "What an unworthy _wretch_ am I!"

For a moment, Amroth did not move, nor speak and then he stretched over and refilled Thranduil's goblet from the decanter. He did not speak until he sat back in his seat once more.

"Do not hate yourself, my friend."

"How can I not?"

"And do not hate your father," Amroth said, as he nudged the refilled goblet back toward his empty hand. "You name yourself fractured, and incomplete – he too, Thranduil, since he lost your mother. In his own flawed way, he seeks only to prevent others from sharing that pain, and I fear that one day you too…"

_"…one day you too will understand…"_

A renewed stab of pain flared in his chest as Amroth echoed words that Celyn had said to him, and he fought to catch his breath, then his voice and his words.

"They…" the thoughts and feelings he wished to share with Amroth remained trapped and he took a mouthful of wine, before holding the goblet in his lap, to tease at the rim of it with a dampened finger.

"…the Elves of Lindon and its surrounds – they name her Herynuilos. She searches among the sick and needful, bringing aid where she might…" His voice cracked in his throat once more, and he forced himself to go on in spite of his hoarseness. "As she was when first I saw her."

_She stood at a break in the rampart, looking out over the water, as when first he had seen her she had been standing at a break in the trees looking out over the ruined coastline of Beleriand. Centuries had passed since then, and he felt every single one of them._

_The ocean breeze lifted her hair, and the fabric – light as it was – of her gown and sent them fluttering out behind her. His steps faltered as he wondered, was it fair to seek her out as he was. He stopped, and turned after a moment, but took only two steps before he faltered again. Indecision gripped him, for never had there been a time that he had been at court without he had at least visited her, and though he had hoped it would be at dinner – in the safety of a public engagement – he had been unable to speak with her at the reception, and thus he had stepped away, later, to try and find her._

_No… He turned away again. It was not fair to disturb her peace, when she—_

_"Thranduil," Her soft call of his name startled him from his thoughts, and approaching him barely a step or two, she echoed the first words he had ever spoken to her._ _"Goheno nin. I had not meant to startle you."_

_"It is I should ask your pardon," he answered, turning slowly back to face her. "I should not have—"_

_"When have you ever failed to visit with me whenever you have come to court?" she interrupted softly, almost directly quoting some of the last words he spoke to her in person._

_"Never," he breathed his answer, his heart aching with all they did not and_ could _not say. Still he tried. "Celyndailiel—"_

_"Don't!" She advanced on him and her hands pressed gently against his chest. For a moment she leaned against him. "Allow me the illusion, the memory…"_

_He covered her hands with his, and it took all of his self-control not to gather her closer as he found the digits frozen beneath his touch. As if she knew his thoughts she spoke softly to him, freeing a hand from beneath his, only to trace the circle of the ring around his finger._

_"I amar sui rhîw enni," she murmured, and his heart tightened still further.  He tried to pull his hand away, but she would not let go. "dan… wanwa an pan u-breniathan." She sighed softly. "If I…" she shook her head and began again, "I have studied every word of intelligence brought to my brother of the movement of peoples and creatures eastward of Lindon, and I fear the indistinct shadow that hides behind the words – that which we cannot see. I weep for the injustice dealt to us by fate but… but you…" Tears began to flow from her eyes as she spoke to him of what she had seen. "…you will always be… within my heart, even if I must let you go to keep you."_

_He began to shake his head, to tell her, "Say only the word and I will forsake the entire world for you, to make you mine – to_ force _my father to find another way…" and caught her up as she released his hand at last, only to cup the side of his face and bring him down to her much shorter height, her cheek to his as she whispered to him._

_"…No, Arasfain. That is not who you are… I understand this," she said, "It is not your father against whom you would set yourself, and I would save you from that. Anything but that."_

_He drew back enough to look at her, capture her eyes with his and for a moment lose himself in the ocean of them before forcing himself to shore again to ask, "What have you seen?"_

_"Nothing that you do not already know," she told him. He frowned then.  She knew him well, but did she see so far into his heart that she knew what he had done? Revealing the mystery to him, she said, "I spoke at length with Galion, though Lord Elrond would have kept him from me if he could. I know how hard you searched, Thranduil, and I would have hoped for nothing less. You have honored… everything that we are and could ever have been each unto the other. And into eternity I shall love you for it…"_

_"Celyn… Celynen…"_

_"Go… Go now, before I dishonor the both of us in my weakness…."_

_Abruptly, she pulled away; stepped away and turned her back, and he felt bereft, as if tossed in a coracle upon a wild river. Unable to move, he waited, but she did not turn back to him… until at length, the weight of duty once again set its mantle upon him, and as he retreated, a whisper reached him, carried on the sea breeze._

_"…one day you too will understand…"_

"I did not see her again," he said, his voice fractured, unable to contain the grief that muddied the water of his soul, stirred by the memory of his time, however brief, in Lindon, with Celyndailiel. "Though evidence of her presence at court was everywhere. So I had to leave… for the sake of my soul – and hers, but I could not return to Greenwood – not yet."

"Maybe never?" Amroth asked the very thought that was in his heart.

"Perhaps never," he said, his tone solemn.

Surprising him entirely, Amroth reached over and plucked the half finished cup from his hands and set it back upon the table – nodding to the entire length of the couch on which Thranduil sat.

"Not for nothing do they call this place _The Dreaming Wood_. Rest. Sleep… dream." Amroth said softly, "Perhaps there are answers yet that we do not see… ones that will give me faith that all will be as it should."

"Then your faith is a lie," Thranduil answered, crushed by bitterness.

"And will be my downfall, this I know," Amroth did not flinch at his accusation, and Thranduil raised an eyebrow, but his friend shook his head, not yet ready to reveal that which he meant, but as he laid his hand upon Thranduil's shoulder, Thranduil felt – as much as saw – the presence of an ancient beauty, a loving hand, and two hearts weeping.

He gasped softly, and looked up at Amroth with a frown, but again his friend shook his head.

"Rest. Sleep. Dream," he said again. "Humor me."

** ** **

Never had Elrond, now Lord at more than just the insistence of an absentee prince, been more relieved at the ending of a council as he was as when night descended upon the Palace at Lindon that Winter Solstice – marking the new day, and the new Sun's round.

It was a day that would begin with feasting, though he – as many others he knew – had rarely felt less like feasting as now, and one such avoided that duty by tending to other, self-imposed, obligations. Drawn as he had been by Gil-Galad toward the King of Greenwood and his guests, Elrond found himself wishing he were in Celyn's company, out beyond the walls, tending to those who arrived daily, and had yet to find a place within the safety of the city walls. He could never have believed then how the day would end.

_"Lord Oropher expressed a wish to speak with you," Gil-Galad hissed before the two came within earshot of the elder Elvenking._

_"And I have no wish for it," Elrond countered, "For I can anticipate the subject of his conversation and have no wish to engage in—"_

_"An envoy now?" Oropher greeted him with a challenge. "And to the High King, no less. I have heard a great many things spoken of your wisdom, Elrond Halfelven."_

_"You honor me, Lord Oropher," he said, drawing down a calm upon himself that he did not truly feel. "I merely speak on what I see."_

_"Speak then," Oropher demanded, "on what you see of our alliance with Cuivienen? Have you met Lord Aearvan?"_

_Inwardly, Elrond could not help but cringe at having been manipulated to such a meeting, but gave the other elf a gracious nod._

_"Briefly, my Lords," he acknowledged them both. "At luncheon, with his Lady Iavaswen. A pleasure amid so much serious discussion," he bowed to acknowledge the lady as she moved closer to the small group of Elves. Gil-Galad also nodded briefly to the Lady of Cuivienen. "As to the question of the alliance, Lord Oropher, of course any such alliance which strengthens our defenses against that which threatens our peace is welcome, my Lord, but – and forgive me Lord Aearvan – Cuivienen… what of its strength in this second age?"_

_Oropher frowned, but Elrond ignored him, turning instead to the Eastern King as he began to speak._

_"Astute question, and one which should have been asked more than just by my Lord Oropher and now yourself," Aearvan answered. "At the turning of the age I was forced to withdraw my people further eastward yet, but there is woodland there, and as a people, we still exist, and have the strength of our ancestors, which we have pledged to Greenwood for the defense of the west, as you heard in council."_

_"I heard, yes, my Lord, but I yet fail to see how such an alliance would benefit your people in a reciprocal manner."_

_"Another fair question, my Lord," Aearvan said, "And it would provide—"_

_"Politics, Ada…?"  A raven haired, younger Elf slipped her arm through that of Lord Aearvan, "On such a day? Forgive me, Lord Elrond – it is Lord Elrond?" Válinsillúle asked, though he was certain that such a question was unnecessary, as she went on before he could answer, "But the time for politics is passed – for now at least. The Solstice is with us, and with it the promise of all that is to come in the New Coránar."_

Promise… it was a promise that turned sour before the coming of the next day. Late afternoon, the rider thundered into Lindon, black fletched arrow – too familiar to Elrond – buried deeply within his thigh.

"I cyth!" he cried. "Greenwood is fallen!"

Elrond grabbed the shoulder of the nearest steward, his mind running in several directions at once. Celyn was out there somewhere, possibly caught in whatever ambush had made its way so far west as to threaten the safety of Lindon.

"Assemble your company, inform the king and bring me horse and armor!" he ordered, even as the courtyard came alive around him.

** ** **

Celyndailiel shielded her eyes against the lowering sun as the guardsman – one of few concessions she had made to her brother – rode back leading the lone chestnut, the figure atop the mount slumped against the horse's neck.  As the distance between them closed she worried at the edge of her cloak to realize the figure was a woman.

"Set her here," she instructed urgently as the guardsman dismounted and reached up to steady the barely conscious figure. She indicated the hastily constructed cot within the makeshift shelter, one of many she had erected in outlying settlement – little more than a ramshackle collection of dwellings erected just as hastily – as the Elven people from the surrounds of Lindon and Harlindon sought refuge against the growing troubles in the open country.

She crouched at the cot-side as the guardsman set the woman down carefully, propped on her side by a rolled blanket to prevent hindering the arrow still embedded in the back of the Elf's shoulder.

' _Young'_ she thought. _'and noble by her look.'_

Not that it mattered. She would have helped the woman whether she were noble or common among her people.

"Who is she?" she asked of the guardsman, wondering if he had seen or recognized any device upon the woman's clothing or her horse's tack. He shook his head.

"I know her not, my lady," he answered. "But the party from Greenwood left Lindon at first light, homeward bound. Perhaps one of Lord Oropher's people."

Her heart twisted, and her eyes flicked in an instant to the young Elf's right hand, but she wore riding gloves and it was impossible for her to see the answer to the question she would not allow herself to ask. Her own hand trembled and she reached to lift the sweat dampened, night black hair from the girl's face. Young and fair.

"…Like the moon in a midnight sky…" she murmured.

"My lady?" the guardsman frowned at her in confusion.

She shook her head, coming to herself again from here melancholy reverie.

"No matter," she said, "I fear there is little I can do here with so few supplies remaining at my disposal. You must help me. Steady her while I break the shaft – If I can."

He shook his head, and she in her turn, frowned.

"Not so easily will it sunder, Lady Celyndailiel," he said. "It is of Orcish make. Crude but strong."

"We must," she said, "I know this type of arrow. It is barbed. If we try to remove it against direction of flight it will harm her more.  It must go through."

"Agreed, my Lady," he nodded, "But though I doubt not your strength, I do not think you have it in you to break the shaft.  You steady her and I will snap the fletching and push it through. Only may you be ready to heal the further harm."

She looked at him for a moment, then nodded slowly, moving around to the other side of the cot, reaching out to steady the young elf.  At her soft touch the Elf stirred, a soft moan escaping her, as her eyes flickered open – their midnight depths filled with pain and fear deeper yet.

"Wait!" Celyndailiel held up a hurried gesture to the guardsman even as he prepared himself to do as must be done.

"U-gerich achas," she whispered, "Estelio."

She saw incomprehension flicker within the fear for a moment. Then the elleth's pain evidently became too great, and in a voice filled with it, she spoke.

"Lá… alyan—" a soft cry cut off the ending of her plea, but Celyndailiel shivered at the desperate Quenyan tongue she spoke – marking her people ancient even if she herself were not. She could only be—

"Lady Celyndailiel," the guard interrupted urgently, "There is poison along the shaft. We must work quickly."

Celyndailiel snatched a breath then making herself reach out to catch the girl's hands and ease her close.

"Anta lle nwalmalya," she gathered herself, murmuring the soft rushing words of a spell of displacement, before she nodded to guard. A harsh gasp escaping her at the sudden bite of mortality that clamped around her shoulder at the first connection of her spell.

Vaguely, amid the storm of sensation and impression, Celyndailiel registered the brittle snap of the arrow's shaft, and the girl in her arms stiffened.

"Anta nin," she repeated, drawing a deeper breath still, drawing on the Land to support the both of them.

"Vairë…!" the elleth gasped, then cried out as the guardsman pushed hard, and the arrow moved through her flesh.  Her cry began in her throat, but ended as it passed to Celyndailiel as she took her pain. "Lle Vairë!"

Celyndailiel's cry ended in a sobbing laugh as she grasped the Elf's meaning.

"Hardly," she told her, breathing to control the progress of the spell and the healing energies she shared. "I am but an Elf… as you, not Valar, nor even Maiar… but an Elf…"

"Lady…" the guardsman roused her from a near stupor. "You must stop. You must tend to the bleeding."

Celyndailiel looked up at him, and then to the steady stream of crimson flowing from the elleth's shoulder where the arrow had been pushed through, as if confused, as if answering a different call. Then another breath and the moment passed.  Hurriedly, her hand trembling, she picked up the packing, and the bandage, and as best as she was able, hurriedly bound the wound.

"There is nothing more I can do here." The words fell from her in a rush. She was battling herself as much as everything she knew. "I must take her to Lindon.  Help me!"

Even before the guardsman moved to do as bidden, she began to try and lift the Elf who had lapsed again into a semi-conscious state. The guard brushed her aside, and lifted the elleth into his arms, moving toward the horse.

"Let me—"

"No!" Celyn lurched past him, hauled herself into the saddle and held out her arms for the girl. " _I_ must… I _must…_ "

** ** **

"She will live," Elrond said, and swept his robes behind him as he stood from the bedside of the Lady of Cuivienen and turned to face Gil-Galad and Lord Oropher. To the King of Greenwood, he added with a sigh as he spotted the elven queen's lifeless spouse that lay nearby, "If she is of a heart to survive. _You_ should let me, or some other if you would rather, tend to _your_ wounds, my Lord."

"They are nothing, Halfelven!" Oropher answered harshly, "Just see to it that she does, my Lord.  There has been loss enough today."

"Too much," Elrond agreed, looking again to the covered corpse of Cuivienen's king. " _I_ cannot force a heart to endure where it will not."

"What happened, Oropher?" Gil-Galad cut in on Elrond's rising ire, and after a moment or two, Elrond was glad of the intervention, lest he say something to Oropher that he would later regret, as no doubt would half of Middle Earth.

"They came out of nowhere," Oropher answered, "as we neared the shadow of Ered Luin, as if they knew in advance of our coming. Ereinion, I fear you may have a traitor in your midst." Without warning he rounded again on Elrond, and in surprise he almost gave ground. "And you, Elrond… you _will_ tell me where is my so—"

Elrond drew himself up to his full height before Oropher, about to tell him he had already sent for Thranduil, when a shout from the courtyard disturbed them all.

"Hai… idh riel!"

As one the three Elves hurried to the balcony, to watch as the horse careened into the center of the courtyard, pulling up sharply, the two figures barely staying seated atop the mount. Elrond was the first to head for the staircase leading down, her name upon his lips, Gil-Galad hard upon his heels.

"Celyn," Elrond reached up to the unsteady figure atop the horse, only to see Celyndailiel rouse herself with an effort beyond monumental.

"Take her," she bid him, and even as he obeyed, began to slip from the saddle. Alarmed he tried to support them both, relinquishing Celyn to her brother, as Gil-Galad reached for her, and she clung to him as he drew her down.

Oropher cursed loudly, demanding Elrond shift his focus back to the maiden now in his arms. He opened his senses, following the light streaming from Celyn to Válinsillúle, and understood at once without a word spoken, that not only had Celyn saved her life – but that she understood.

"Ai, i ûr!" he breathed and then more strongly, reaching out with his own light to sever the link Celyn had woven with that of Válinsillúle, he commanded, "Farn! Celyndailiel… Farn. Lasto, Celyn… Anno he annim!"

Relief flooded him as Celyn slumped against Ereinion, and he felt the tangible weight of the injured Elf pass to him, and he shifted Válinsillúle in his arms ready to carry her to a place where he might more fully heal her wound.

As he passed the king, he hissed to Gil-Galad. "If ever you loved her, Ereinion, _send_ her away.  Send her to your kinswoman in Eregion, I beg of you," and at Gil-Galad's frown, reminded him more quietly yet," I have already sent for Thranduil."

** ** **

Bent low over the horse's neck as the stallion flew beneath him, Thranduil turned his head and frowned to watch a small band of riders leaving Lindon at a fair fast pace. The distant was too great for him to make out rider or even banner, but he felt his stomach lurch none-the-less. Yet another manifestation of the growing tide of shadow that haunted them all.  He was certain of it.

"Noro lim, meleth nin," he whispered, and held tighter yet as the horse picked up its pace.  He tried to tell himself it was the urgency of Elrond's summons that sped his desire to return to the city, but his honesty demanded recognition of a different cause.

Guard and civilian alike threw themselves aside as he galloped into the courtyard, grooms barely grasping the reins before he slid from the saddle, and tossed his riding gloves to a steward that arrived at his side a breath later.

"Prince Thranduil," the steward said, "The King, your father and Lord Elrond await your presence in the King's study."

He nodded, though his eyes scanned every stair and balcony, to no avail, and an emptiness began to creep upon him as profound as the sudden burning of the metal around his index finger. He took a steadying breath, before setting measured steps toward the doorway that would bring him to the Lords who waited on his pleasure.

As he passed beneath the arch a touch on his arm drew him to a halt and he snapped his gaze into the ill lit shadows beside the door.

"I saw you looking for her," a soft voice said. He recognized the voice to be that of one of Celyn's lady's maids, and he honored her as such with a respectful bow, meant as an encouragement for her to continue. "They have sent her away, my Lord."

"Away?" he frowned.

"To kinfolk in Eregion – Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel, and to take tutelage with Lord Celebrimbor," she said, and he knew that there was more.

"Tell me," he demanded, but she shook her head.

"I cannot, Ernil nin." She curtsied an apology. "Lord Elrond—"

He nodded his understanding, cutting of her words.

"I will speak with him," he said curtly, and to soften his treatment of her, added, "Hanon le."

But like Celyndailiel, she was already gone.

** ** **

Though the January snow lay thick upon the ground, the Lady of Light approached where Celyndailiel sat reading with no slippers upon her feet, a soundless whisper of fabric far too light against the cold surrounding her as she came.

"You bear the scar still," the lady said as she came to stand before Celyndailiel, "though none will you let know of it."

She looked up into Galadriel's face, her own a countenance of sorrow and grace as she confirmed the Lady's suspicions, and lowering her guard, drew in a breath and pressed her hand to the front of her left shoulder, where the pain still dwelled.

"None… need know," she answered after a moment. "My pain is but a foreshadowing of what is to come."

She felt Galadriel study her and it felt as though a lifetime passed in those few moments. Then surprising her, the Lady lowered herself to sit at her feet, and as if she a child and Celyndailiel the parent laid her head upon Celyndailiel's lap.

"There will come a time," Galadriel said eventually, "When you will lend to me all that you are… all that you will ever be, and yet it will be _I_ will bear the renown of it. I have foreseen it, though the future is not yet come to pass.  It is yours to write, but… if you have strength, this is not the last time you will act in defense of your soul's home… there will be others, and I think _you_ have foreseen them."

Celyndailiel swallowed hard, and shook her head.

"I know nothing save the rising and setting of the sun that bring day and night," she whispered, "I amar sui lost ennin hi."

"Istan," Galadriel all but sung the world. "Know that _I_ know, Celyndailiel, but that I will ever bear your secret, and take from me a warning…" She stood then, and cupped Celyn's cheek in the palm of one hand. "…do not allow your emptiness to blind you to a light that is in truth a darkness, deeper than the very bowels of the earth. Do not surrender to despair."

Celyndailiel closed her eyes, the temptation so near. She barely felt the moment when the strangeness passed, and was bereft as Galadriel's fingers left the side of her face.

"We leave for Lorien, child, Celeborn and I," Galadriel said. "Eregion we leave to your guardian, but…"

Even before the Lady of Light could finish the sentence Celyndailiel shook her head. She could not go to Lorien… so far from the sea – too far from everyone and everything she knew. _Too far from a vain hope for the future._

"I cannot leave," she said quietly. "My future lies not in Lorien, my Lady; not in either place of that name. I will _never_ see the Blesses West."

Galadriel nodded, and smiling sadly said, "Then our daughter will remain at your side… for company," her smile broadened a little, and with almost the spirit teasing she added, "…and for the realization of her _own_ future."

Celyndailiel could not help but smile – for she too had seen the future of which Galadriel spoke.

** ** **

Snowdrops…

The forest had been so dark of late that coming upon the small patch of snowdrops in the clearing they entered surprised Thranduil enough to have him pull up his mount and bring the whole weary company to a halt.

He dismounted; handed his reins to his captain, and walked to kneel beside the tree in front of which the patch of snowdrops grew, and removing his glove, almost tenderly ran his fingertips over the green stems and leaves, to cup the flowers briefly in his hand.

A flash of white, deeper within the trees caught his eye and he looked up into the ocean blue of the doe's eyes. He held his breath, and she inched closer, to within a whisper of his slowly outstretched hand.

"Idh… Hiril nin," he whispered, and she sniffed the air, lowering herself to her knees as if in a bow at first, before lying down, stretching her nose to meet his hand.

"Idh…" he repeated softly. "Idh…"

The velvet touch of her nose met his palm and at the meeting of the two the world fell away…

_Visceral agony accompanied a sudden rush of heat and light, even as he tried to turn aside, and darkness descended.  In that dark he watched as a shining figure walked steadily closer, indistinct – shining in light only morphing as it came, into the gentle presence of a white deer, a doe, and she lay down as if in repose, became as stone and draped with vines. Her eyes flashed fear, and a warning cried within his mind._

_"Arasfain!"_

… even as the vision faded, his hand was already reaching for the hilt of his blade.

The doe bellowed in fear, and sprang to her feet, darting away from Thranduil, away from the ever patient elves under his command, and in the same moment, he threw himself back, opposite to the direction the deer had fled, twisting his body as he did.

"Yrch!" he warned, and rolling, drew his blade as he came to his feet, and sprang across the patch of flowers as he moved to engage foul creatures that had invaded his vision.

His blade clashed against Orcish iron and he twisted aside from a poorly aimed strike. A moment later relieving the offending creature of its head as his second blade followed in a whirling, deadly dance of warrior and Elvish steel. As if he knew where they would fly, he moved into the spaces between the arrows that the warriors of his company fired toward the remaining Orcs, and finding himself face to face with another of the filthy creatures, thrust forward with his blade, impaling it and twisting his sword until he found its heart, around him, more fell victim to the accuracy of his companions' bowmanship and a third, unfortunate Orc presented itself to the ever more deadly whirling of his swords.

The Orc fell within seconds, and the entire skirmish was over before the passing of many more, but not without harm. As his anger and adrenaline faded, the sting of the jagged slice to the back of his hand, and the side of his wrist where he had removed his glove, drew his attention. He reached up to his shoulder, tore a strip from his cloak to wind around his still bleeding hand, and then stifling his disgust, searched the Orc bodies for any clues as to their affiliations. He found nothing, and sighed deeply.

 "Remove the corpses and burn them," he instructed as his captain reached his side.

"Yes, my lord," he said, then added, "They are growing bold; ever closer to our fortifications."

"And they pay for their boldness," he answered. "And ever will."

Side by side they returned to the horses, and Thranduil looked back to the patch of snowdrops, sickened to see that all but a single flower had been crushed in the skirmish. He turned away, brushing angrily, with his hastily wrapped hand, at the tear that welled and escaped his eye. Throwing himself into the saddle of his horse, he tugged the stallion's head around.

"Report to me when this is finished," he snapped. "I must speak with my father."

Hours later, the soft scuff of a foot at the threshold of his private apartments disturbed his reverie. When no further sound nor announcement came, he tipped his head and with a deep breath asked, "Why do you hesitate? If there are word you wish to say to me, then… speak."

He knew who it was; had sensed her presence in the instance her foot made the sound. He had no wish to speak with anyone, least of all her, and yet… in the forest, battling the Orcs, in the depth of his vision, he had been forced, irrevocably to accept that his chance for reprieve was growing slim. He had tried to fight, to the last ounce of his soul, for time; for a way, but the strength of the shadow had only increased until even _he_ felt he was endangering his people, those he cared about, and his father had voiced the same.

_"Put aside this futile objection, Ionen and fulfil the duty laid upon you, to which you_ swore _your oath!"_

"Nothing to say?" he challenged, instead hearing her enter the room. When her touch settled on his shoulder, he could not help but stiffen. He heard her breathing quicken but she did not remove the touch, nor yet speak, until the soft glide of her fingers had traveled the length of his arm to run carefully over his bandaged wrist and hand.

"Do you…" she began as she circled to his side, "Do you truly _hate_ me so much, Prince Thranduil?"

"I do not hate you," he told her, clipping the edges of his words, feeling his irritation peak at the approach she took: challenging in a combative way.

"No?" her voice colored in disbelief did little to calm that irritation.

"No."

"You would rather… roam the woodland seeking out trouble that spend time together. We are two months from our union, and still barely a gentle conversation let alone a kind word has passed between us. Forever you place yourself in harm's way, rather than—"

Unable to contain himself any longer he snatched up the half-filled, crystal goblet at his right hand, and freeing his left from her touch, stood and threw the cup past her shoulder. She yelped, and though she cringed, she held her ground as the goblet shattered against the wall.

"Yes!" he admitted, his voice raised. "Yes, I place myself in harm's way. It is my _duty_ to my people to keep these woodlands free of danger, to them… to _all_ of Middle Earth."

With no warning he caught her by the upper arms, and her hands flew to steady herself against his chest, gasped softly.

"Thranduil!"

"What would you have me do? What?" he asked, and let her go just as suddenly, beginning to turn. By the irregular shift of her feet on the ground behind him he knew she had stumbled, but still she caught his sleeve to prevent him moving away.

"Thranduil," she repeated his name softly, and he felt the tightness in sleeve ease as she released it, only to stiffen again as her flattened hands moved slowly upward from his waist toward his shoulders. "You think I have not heard the rumors, Hir nin?"

"Rumors?" he barely whispered he query.

"Before our… betrothal there was… another for whom you cared," she said.

 Her touch suddenly scalded him, and from it radiated waves of pain, and loss… guilt that threatened to crush the air from his chest. He half turned, began to lift his hand, and she stepped back. He froze. His face crumpled, his eyes becoming more haunted than ever.

"Cared?" he breathed, and she tipped her head, the dark pools of her eyes becoming as a mirror. "Ai, Válinsillúle…"

He breathed out – a long, slow, dreadful breath, embracing the inevitable realization that he hadn't been, and was not being fair. No matter how slighted by fate and the Valar he felt, he could not, should not… _must_ not take it out upon one who was doubtless innocent… and if they _were_ to spend eternity together…

"Do you… blame me?" she asked him, sounding just as young, in that moment, as he knew her to be.

He reached the rest of the way with his still raised hand, brushed his fingertips against her cheek. Feeling uncomfortable at the gesture, yet he forced himself not to snatch his hand away as she closed her eyes and sighed.

"You?" he said, cupping his hand at her cheek and brushing the forward edge of her ear with his thumb. "No. What happened… what is happening… it is in the hands of Valar alone."  He sighed, and held out his other hand to her, for hers. "Forgive me, Válinsien."

He used a pet name for her, and though her eyes filled with tears, perhaps of relief, she slipped her free hand into his.

"Does it hurt?" she asked and he frowned until he realized she was running her fingers over the bandage around his hand.

"Perhaps a little," he admitted, and gave her a soft smile of regret. "I've suffered worse, my Lady. Come… sit… let us finally share those refreshments I promised so many months ago." He led her to the low couch before the fireplace, where, releasing her hand, he moved to a nearby table to pour each of them a cup of wine. "Tell me of your homeland?"

** ** **

February surrendered to March… and into April and though life was blooming around her, the world, to Celyndailiel remained a lifeless shade of grey.  Even the sun, golden in her splendor as she descended to her ocean home did little to warm the chill that crept over Celyndailiel, and she wondered if, further east than her clifftop vantage, the sun had already disappeared from view, signaling the beginning of a new day.

The last.

_Her_ last.

She shuffled her feet, an unconscious gesture, but the wind beckoned and Ulmo's voice sang to her from below, so welcoming… so easy.

"Celyn!" Youthful and breathless, though Celyndailiel doubted from the climb, Celebrian caught her hand and drew her back from the edge. "What are you doing here?"

"Watching the sunset," she answered softly. "And what are you?"

"Looking for you," Celebrian caught up both her hands and tugged at her, "there are riders – from Lindon.  Lord Elrond and—"

"Of course," she chuckled without humor. Had she thought on it, she would have expected him this day of all days. She reached out and cupped Celebrian's cheek, trying to deflect her thoughts away from her own emotions. "Tell me… when will you act upon your feelings for him?"

Celebrian blushed and turned away from Celyndailiel.

"I cannot," she whispered.

" _Only_ you can," Celyndailiel argued, and wrapped an arm around the shoulders of her friend. "You and he."

She turned her head then, feeling the arrival of Annatar before ever she saw him, and anything more she might have said to Celebrian died before it came to birth. She shivered.  Annatar had obviously been working, was devoid of robes and the sleeves of his shirt were raised above his elbows. So often she saw him thus – watching… watching _her,_ approaching too intimately, too often.

"It is sunset, Lady Celyndailiel," his voice lay heavy with meaning… taunt – and expectant invitation. She shuddered again, closing her mind to the reaching, suffocating aura she always felt from him; at the same time denying the unwelcome, terrifying fascination with which a part of her answered his presence and despising herself for it. With a great effort she returned her attention to her friend.

 Come," she said, overly bright, "We shall go down together to meet them. I am certain Lord Celebrimbor would be thankful to us for that."

"He is so busy of late," Celebrian answered in agreement and linked her arm through Celyndailiel's and, she thought she felt the overly tight grasp – as one of fear – with which Celebrian held to her where a moment before, her heart had been so light, so full of life.

She glanced again toward Annatar again, feeling his eyes; feeling exposed by the gaze, naked and alone.

_'…It is sunset, Lady Celyndailiel…'_

His words echoed inside of her, and beyond his shoulder the sun's last golden ray surrendered to the ocean's loamy embrace.

_'Must I, too, surrender?'_

Rising tears blurred her vision and for a moment, standing in the sun's dying light, Annatar, was as a dark pupil within a baleful eye.  She sobbed once, silently, freeing tears from her lashes and then the vision was gone and the new day began.

"Melethron…" she whispered, casting her mind, and what remained of her heart far, far to the opposite direction, one in which she now turned to descend from the clifftop. "Namarië."

** ** **

As the last glow of light faded to shadow, and the hovering servants shuffled from foot to foot, Thranduil closed his eyes and let out a long, slow sigh. A deep melancholy settled over him and without opening them, or yet saying a word, he released the unspoken interdiction against the kindling of the lanterns. The air stirred around him as the servants, like a wave, flowed through the sitting room, and behind his still closed lids, his eyes registered the presence of the flickering lantern light.

The susurration of robes faded to a breath of silence, like the faraway sigh of a farewell, and Thranduil, at last, opened his eyes once more and raised his head from where, in weariness, he had laid it on the back of his chair.

Following the flickering glow, he located the elleth who, by the same time on the following day, would be as one with him; surrender to him as she would at the next sunset – the moment that would bring them together as husband and wife. The thought remained an agony, but he would endure.

It was not as though he thought her unattractive, nor even that her presence and her personality repelled him, simply that his heart was, and would always be, lost to another; to Celyndailiel.

He sighed, pushing at the melancholy with a deep sense of self-loathing. He wasn't being fair, not to anyone, and while Celyndailiel had spoken her understanding of the necessity to duty, Válinsillúle had entered, in good faith, to the union meant to be a boon and a salvation to both of their people. She deserved more; better than a husband emotionally absent and bound only by duty.

Rising from his chair, he approached the balcony where she stood. Though he knew he could not love her, he would at least endeavor to show her some affection, some tenderness.

"Válien," he called to her, his voice soft and deep. "Come inside. Come away from the balcony."

She turned at the sound of his voice and he held out a hand to her, knowing why it was she waited as she did. As her hand – chilled he noted – settled in his, he drew her closer, guiding her indoors.

"She will _be_ here, my princess," he said, and offering her a half-smile, made an effort to tease playfully. "You do not think she would miss the wedding of her only daughter?"

But she shook her head.

"Something is not right, Thranduil," she said, her voice like the trill of a frightened sparrow. "She should have been here _long_ before this day turned."

He cupped her face gently between his palms, wanting to reassure, trying to be a strength for her, but even as he spoke the words, he felt a shiver of warning – like a finger along his spine.

"Perhaps she simply cannot bear to dwell upon losing one who undoubtedly brings her joy."

She sighed, and leaned in to the touch of one of his hands, almost tearful.

"And you, my lord?" she asked. "What do I bring to _you_?"

He met and held her eyes for the barest of moments, seeing then the desperate need for reassurance and a demonstration of kindness. Was he such a monster that he could not give her even that?

"Válinsillúle," he began quietly. "You are to be my wife."

He spoke no more, simply leaned down to her, to take the softness of her inviolate lips beneath his own. She gasped softly; clutched at the front of his robes, and as she opened to him, he deepened the caress, surrendering to his stolen kiss. He wound his arms around her to draw her closer.

"My lord, Thranduil."

Galion's voice came urgently from the doorway, and breaking apart, Thranduil turned, though he kept Válinsillúle in his embrace, sheltering her as she hid her face against his arm.

"You father needs must speak with you – both of you – urgently."

Without another word, but frowning deeply, Thranduil led her from the room, and to his father's study. Oropher was not alone, and as they entered the room, Thranduil felt Válinsillúle's fingers tighten on his arm.

He looked between the Elf whom it seemed she recognized, and his father, who wore an expression even more grave than usual and when neither offered an easing of the mystery, he ordered, "Speak."

The Elf looked toward Oropher for the briefest of moments – long enough only for the king to nod his assent – before he turned to address Válinsillúle.

"My lady," the envoy said solemnly, "It is with a sorrow greater than the Inland Sea of Helcar that I bring you such tiding as these lips must bear."

What little color she possessed began to drain from her cheeks and her tight grasp on Thranduil's arm became almost painful.

"Amillë," she breathed.

The envoy bowed, and for the first time Thranduil saw that the Elf's eyes were rimmed red as if from weeping.

"My Lady Iavaswen is no more," he answered ritually as he lowered himself to his knee before Válinsillúle, head bowed as he went on. "Queen Iavaswen is dead. May Queen Válinsillúle's rule be long and fruitful."

Thranduil felt Válinsillúle begin to tremble as she stretched out her hand toward the kneeling envoy. Tradition dictated that she did not _have_ to succeed her mother if such were not her wish, but her people must love her greatly to send her word in such a way and if Válinsillúle did not accept, her people would choose a new lord or lady from among them, and likely the both of them would be released from their obligations, each to the other. Then his father would have to seek another way to ally the two houses.

Inwardly, Thranduil shook his head. He knew that there _was_ no other way. Without this union it would be unlikely that Cuivienen and Greenwood would support one another, and now – with the death of their queen and likely growing chaos within their realm, against the growing shadow Cuivienen would need Greenwood as much – if not more – than Greenwood had need of the alliance.

No matter what; no matter the fleeting glimpse of freedom the death of the queen represented, Válinsillúle  must accept the succession, and their union _must_ hold, now more than ever – for Greenwood, for Cuivienen; for _all_ of Middle Earth. He and Válinsillúle _had to_ seal the union of their peoples, and must wed.

Already fractured, Thranduil's soul became as dust as he mentally encouraged his betrothed to see as he saw; to understand as he understood. Slowly, she laid her trembling hand upon the envoy's still bowed head.

"May I, Válinsillúle, ever serve my people to the last breath of my body."

She whispered the ritual promise, and as the last word left her lips, Thranduil bowed low in recognition of her status before him now.

"Rise, Thranduil," she commanded, and he heard the caged tears clearly in her voice even before she added, barely above a whisper, "I need you."

As he straightened, she staggered, and he caught her; held her as her bravery and royal countenance crumbled and fled, and she clung to him in shock… weeping.

He guided her to a chair, and crouched before her – held her gently as he asked of the envoy, "How?"

"Grief, my lord." The answer was not unexpected. "She never truly recovered from the loss of her king."

He nodded and tried to soothe Válinsillúle, as she wept for the loss of her mother.

A lifetime passed in only a few moments, until she looked up at him to say softly, "I must… I must return to my people… at least for a time, there will be doubts – unrest, and it must be eased for we stand in greater peril even now."

"Especially now," he agreed, and for a moment admiration of her rose inside of him, that even in the depth of her sorrow, she was thinking of the safety of her people. He realized then that he had doubted her in that. He held her chin almost tenderly on the crooked finger of one hand and with the other wiped away the tears that still fell.

"I… I have no right to ask of you that you wait for me, my prince, but—"

He shook his head.

"You need not ask it," he said. "I will wait."

Heat and cold met and collided inside of him at the betrayal he felt he had freely uttered, but which he knew was the only course – the _right_ course to defend against the darkness, and his face creased in pain.

"Forgive me," she whispered, and cupped his cheek in the palm of her shaking hand. He knew at her touch that her plea for absolution was not that she had to postpone their union, but that she could not release him to his heart's beloved. Breathless for a moment, a small seed within him sundered and put down a fragile shoot.

Uncaring of who was present, he mirrored her gesture, cupping her cheek in the palm of his hand and drew her to meet his waiting, brief kiss.

"I wish," she began as their embrace eased, "I wish that you could come with me." He opened his mouth to answer her, but she laid her fingertips against his lips. "No. Your people need _you_ as surely as mine have need of _me._ "

"Then you must take the company of my personal guard with you, Válien. I insist," he told her.

"I shall," she said, and as if weary, suddenly leaned against him again, "and you have my word that I shall return to honor our agreement as soon as I may, and pray that the hand of the coming shadow keeps us not too long apart."

"My lady, we stand, you and I, at the mercy of tides other than of our own making or desires and what may happen or may not, is in the hands of the Valar."

_…and what now for Middle Earth – what now for Greenwood's lowly prince…?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ai, Rechyn o i daur! – Hail, riders of the king
> 
> Mae Govannen, Edhel o Eryn Galen – Well met, Elf of Greenwood
> 
> Noro amrûn! – Ride east!
> 
> Elleth – elven woman/maid
> 
> Melethrilen – my beloved (f)
> 
> Melan le – I love you
> 
> Im cilan le – I choose you
> 
> dan boe gwedhan enni pen – but I must bind myself to another
> 
> Wanwa e annim – He is lost to me
> 
> Wanwa pan telitha enni – The future is lost to me
> 
> Daro! – Halt!
> 
> Eno imle, núf leitham i philinn! – Identify yourself, or we will shoot!
> 
> Tegin suilad od i adar hir nín – I bring you greetings from my lord father.
> 
> Ad od i aran Ereinion – and from King Ereinion (Gil-Galad)
> 
> I amar sui rhîw ennin – the world is as winter to me
> 
> dan… wanwa an pan u-breniathan – but… lost to all if I do not endure
> 
> I cyth! – ambush!
> 
> U-gerich achas – do not fear
> 
> Estelio – trust
> 
> Anta lle nwalmalya – give me your pain (Quenya)
> 
> Anta nin – give it to me.
> 
> Hai… idh riel! – the princess!
> 
> Ai, i ûr! – mercy! [lit: inner heart/pity]
> 
> Farn! – enough!
> 
> Lasto – Listen/hear me
> 
> Anno he annim – give her to me
> 
> Noro lim, meleth nin – run fast, my friend
> 
> Ernil nin – my prince
> 
> Hanon le – thank you
> 
> I amar sui lost ennin hi – the world is empty to me now
> 
> Istan – I know
> 
> Idh – peace
> 
> Hiril nin – my lady
> 
> Hir nin – my lord
> 
> Melethron – beloved (m)
> 
> Namarië – farewell
> 
> Válien – my Vali
> 
> Amillë – mother (Quenya)
> 
> The quotation at the head of the chapter reflects the question asked by Thranduil as his betrothed prepares to leave for home.


	20. Im Núro lín

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - Chapter contains explicit content.

Third Age of Middle Earth - 2840

 

_Êr pedo i beth ad na be iest lín, gwathan le an hidh o dû, dan natha sui gurth enni. Egor pedo manadh prestart aen, ad eno nín an le, ad pan i ngerin, pan im ego esteliatha na natha lín sui hae sui uir breniatha._

The unseasonal cool weather and stiff breezes gave an almost ominous quality to the first change in the forest mantle as Lavas settled its cloak around the landscape. Flowers had become fruits and berries, and the bushes and trees were laden with them.

"It will be a harsh winter," Nieniriathlim mused softly, but aloud.

"Yes, my lady," one of her maids answered, from where she hovered nearby to where, kneeling, Nieniriathlim drew her cloak more tightly about her shoulders. "Lady Nieniriathlim, if the air is too chill, we should return indoors. The king—"

"I will not have this garden see another autumn nor winter looking like a tangled wreck," she said – soft but firm. "King Thranduil does not need to be bothered by tales of a little cold causing me to tighten the cloak around my shoulders."

Defiant of her maids' worry, she leaned forward onto her hands and began plucking at the long dead leaves, tangled with the weeds that grew like unto a ball of yarn that had been set upon by a palace kitten. Her fingers worked lovingly to separate vine, from weed, from strangled plant and little by little, one slowly recovered inch at a time, Nieniriathlim began to clear the flower bed close by to a bench that felt so familiar to her – comfortable, yet at the same time…

_A fist closed about her hair, jerking her head back painfully on her neck, and she responded with reflex amid the panic, to reach for the blade carried hidden within the folds of her gown, yet… even as she did, her unseen assailant hauled her painfully to her feet, snatching at her wrist._

_Fingernails scraped cruelly at her soft skin, caught at the multi-stranded silver that graced her arm with the flash of starlight with each gesture she made, the tightness gave, and…_

Nieniriathlim shivered, her fingers still within the loamy soil as she teased at the tube-like root of an insidious weed, tangled with a slender, harder strand. She frowned, and withdrew her fingers, reaching for a small trowel with which to ease back the soil still further and free the tuber, and whatever passenger it carried.

She took her time, her patience and curiosity vying for expression for she did not wish to damage whatever it was she had found, feeling around with her sensitive fingers as she teased it free; by touch identifying several small nodules. After many more, long minutes of working, her fingers beginning to ache, the deeply rooted plant came free, and with it the piece of a fine chain, which even though muddied with soil, still shone with a brightness enough to tease her grasp with light, and the gems which clung through time to the chain, were as the burning stars in the firmament, and warm as though some inner fire gave them life.

"Water," she murmured, for reason unknown to her, finding it suddenly hard to breathe. "Please… bring me water."

A maid rushed to obey; furnished Nieniriathlim with a shallow bowl, filled with clear water from the fountain nearby.  She dropped the piece of chain and gemstones into it, and with meticulous attention, cleaned every piece of soil and the detritus, it seemed of centuries past, from chain and jewels alike.

When she was done, she lifted the fragment of jewelry from the water to dry it carefully upon the cloth that lay rested over the cloak covering her bended knees, and her heart pounded as the light of the late afternoon sun drew white fire from each gemstone that sat in her lap.

The sight dazzled her, and twisted her belly in a rush of recognition, and with the ache of loss, but harsher yet, the sharp slice of fear that stilled her lungs until they burned painfully. She snatched a breath, and her maids moved closer in concern.

"My Lady?"

"These gems…" she whispered, holding out an unsteady hand.

As one the maids stopped, one indeed taking more than a pace backward, as if to escape something baleful.

"You must not," the maid gasped, "You cannot… have that."

"But it came from the ground, beneath this plant," she held up the weed. "Entangled in its root."

"That's as may be, but…" another said, but trailed off.

"What _is_ it?" she pressed, frowning, and came to her feet, holding the short chain between her hands, her fingers absently moving over one of the gems, as though in prayer. The maid shook her head. "Tell me."

"My Lady, we cannot," ventured the one. "Please, just heed us.  Set them aside.  Bury them again if sense you have, and never speak of them."

"If this is superstition…" she began, but again, as one, they shook their heads, and she trailed off, looking from one to the next, and the next, before finally slipping the gems into her pocket, and stooping to pick up the gardening items, she placed them into her basket. She felt a measure of surprise and dismay to discover, as she leaned down, a tear that glided down her cheek to rest, like the softness of a kiss, against her lip. She blotted at it with the back of her hand as she straightened.

"I'm wearied," she said, "I will go to my rest, and thank you, you need not attend me."

"My lady, please," one, the youngest of her maids reached out to catch her hand as she began to turn, "We seek only to safeguard your comfort. Do not send us from your presence."

The young maid seemed so distressed that Nieniriathlim's heart softened from the anger of hurt that their fearful attitudes had brought her, to cover the maids hand with her own.

"You always have my interests in your hearts. This I know," she said softly, "But please, you _too_ deserve rest, and if all I am to do is to take reverie in my solar, why burden you with attendance upon me, where my needs will be few." Impulsively, and not knowing why, she lifted the maid's hand that she still held to her cheek, and leaned into it for a moment, her action causing greater consternation in the older maids, but then no… not consternation, she later decided, but it felt as though their reactions were of surprise; the kind of surprise that left them without foundation to know what next they should do.

Still, she took her leave of them, truly intending to seek rest in the solar, but then, as she walked, her hand found its way to her pocket, and encountering the chain and gems once more, she decided instead to seek out the king. Perhaps _he_ would speak on what she had found, where others would not.

** ** **

Thranduil leaned back in his chair, pausing in the conversation until the stewards and serving staff had set the food and wine onto the table and withdrawn at his command. He wished for privacy with Glorfindel, now that his fear-driven anger had faded, and he was able to be more rational, if no less adamant concerning his path forward. He recognized also that Glorfindel sought, in his own gentle way, to persuade him otherwise.

Reaching out, he poured wine for the both of them, and set one cup before the other Elf.

"We discovered them too late, and I cannot express the regret I feel that I did not, when first I accepted the truth of her, send a garrison in protection of her parents," he said, continuing his retelling of recent events surrounding the lady Nieniriathlim. "And yet…"

He trailed off with a sigh, and sipped his wine, remembering the evening, the emotion, the turning of the key in the Valar's lock that stood between him and his reunion with Celyndailiel.

"Yet?" Glorfindel prompted when he had not spoken in many long minutes.

"Yet it was in comforting her that she came to know who she is, and whatever geas was laid upon her by Mandos, sundered in the wake of our… encounter."

"And so," Glorfindel sipped from his own cup. "Now you will… what?  And Legolas? Does he know?"

With another sigh, Thranduil shook his head, and closed his eyes in a long blink, before reaching, as he opened them, for a light cracker. His stomach churned with worry and indecision.

"I have never been able to speak to Legolas of his mother," he said softly, "At first, it was because I felt such… responsibility – such guilt."

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow, in query.

With a deeper breath yet, Thranduil released the hold of the magic that connected him with the woodland that brought him wholeness, where the lingering despair he carried still denied him healing. Cell by cell the left side of his face disintegrated, revealing raw muscle and sinew. The room darkened as the sight faded from his left eye.

"Thranduil…!" Glorfindel breathed.

He allowed the truth of his lack of healing to linger for moments more, not speaking, embracing the pain that began to return the longer he remained disconnected from his realm.

"Elrond… Elrond explained how badly you were hurt but," Glorfindel went on, shock evident in his voice, "How? How did you survive?"

"Celyndailiel," Thranduil spoke her name as though a prayer. "She sustained me; poured _all_ of her light into my soul that I might survive, and when that was not enough, she begged of the Valar to allow me life, even at the cost of her own."

He took another breath and reached once more for the connection with his Woodland Realm, and felt the burning lessen, his sight cleared and the wholeness of his visage returned.

"Your wife loves you," Glorfindel said softly.

"I am undeserving," Thranduil argued, "The night before I left for the battle, she came to me, pleaded with me not to go…"

"And you did not listen," Glorfindel stated as much as asked.

"No, I did not," he confirmed, "but worse… at dawns first light I dismissed her from the forward camp. Had six of my most trusted warriors convey her back to Greenwood, little better than an errant subject, but… Glorfindel, I _feared_ for her – greatly. Deeply, I believed that should she remain, it would mean the loss of her." He gave a huff of laughter, full of irony not humor, "How could I have been _so_ wrong?"

Glorfindel shook his head.

"You acted in defense of your Queen, as would _any_ King," he said, and reached over then to place a hand onto Thranduil's arm. "But, my friend… _you_ are not just any king."

Thranduil lowered his head for a moment, preparing the words of denial he had for _so_ long kept locked away inside. Protectively… defensively…

"So what _did_ you tell your son?"

His head snapped up, the ice of his eyes reflecting true gratitude to Glorfindel for not pressing the point he had just made in what he did _not_ say.

"Half-truths and obfuscations… of Gundabad and Angmar," he admitted, his very soul filling with remembered fear as he said, "They _might_ have been truth, Glorfindel. It might _well_ have been the truth, if I had not—"

In the same moment that Glorfindel began to rise to his feet, Thranduil sensed Nieniriathlim's presence in the doorway, and he too stood, holding out a hand to her, banishing what lingering anxiety he had felt, as the sight of her reached him.

"My Lady," he greeted her, smiling softly. "Please… join us."

She came hesitantly, and he saw her gaze pass from him to Glorfindel and back as she came and slipped her hand into his.

At the touch of her fingers, he felt it, His breath caught and fluttered almost painfully within his chest. It was as if an ocean of all that she had ever been shimmered beneath the surface of a thinly crafted sheet of glass. As though it could shatter – release her from captivity – if only they could strike at the right point, the right… moment. He too could not help but look to Glorfindel.  Would the other Elf sense it too, this energy, this sense of caged potential?

"I am intruding?" she murmured, looking to Thranduil, though it was Glorfindel who answered – and by his words and manner, Thranduil knew that indeed the Elder Elf felt, as he had, the presence, not of a mere maiden – but of Greenwood's queen.

"Lau, idh rîs nín," Glorfindel said, the quiet respect evident as he went on, "Im Glorfindel o Imladris, na buiad lín."

With his words he offered her a low bow, as once she might have expected, and a blush colored her cheeks.

"Please, Glorfindel, you are a friend of King Thranduil," she managed haltingly, and Thranduil felt he detected a note almost of apology in her tone. _Perhaps she believes she should know him, and cannot recall him to mind_. He gave a reassuring squeeze of her fingers in his, as she went on, "You need no such deference, and it is I should act in service of such an esteemed lord."

Thranduil's heart constricted at her words, so familiar; so like herself – before – and combined with the energies he felt, in that moment he could have wept. Instead he raised her fingers to his lips, to kiss the backs of them in true and genuine affection.

"Let us _all_ dispense with such formalities," he said softly, and guided Nieniriathlim to a large, comfortable couch adjacent to the seat he had occupied, waiting to reseat himself until she had settled, and then as Glorfindel also took his seat, Thranduil poured wine into an empty cup, to set before his lady. "And enjoy our meal together as companions might."

"Yes, my Lord," she said softly, the blush returning to color her face more strongly yet, "I should like that."

"I'm certain, also, that I would not be overstepping my mark," Glorfindel added, "were I to say that Lord Elrond, too, sends greetings to you, my Lady…"

His tone rose on a note of enquiry, and for a moment, Thranduil found himself caught in a web of expectancy, as Nieniriathlim tipped her head, regarding Glorfindel again as though searching harder yet for a shred of recognition. By Glorfindel's own words, spoken in the Hall of Fire in Rivendell, the Elf had never met Greenwood's queen and Thranduil couldn't help the doubt that crept, for the space of a mere breath, over his unquiet heart. Then, she surprised him once more, and a fresh rush of emotion threatened to overflow within him at her answer.

"Thank you, Glorfindel. I know that my Lord and I hold him dearly within our hearts, so please… on your return, echo such warmly given sentiments," she reached out with an as yet timid hand to pick up and sip from the cup that Thranduil had set before her, before she added, "As for you and I, I fear I cannot recall, or else we have ne'er yet met, but… by whichever name brings you better comfort, please address me. I sense within these walls while we are alone, we might do so without detriment."

Glorfindel smiled.

"Then, my Lady Celyndailiel, well met," he said, "and joyous day."

"Hanon le," she said, and Thranduil, too, smiled as she reached then toward where his arm rested on the chair, and he turned his hand to catch her fingers in his.

"Is all well, Meluien?" Thranduil asked, still toying with the tips of her fingers in his.

"Enough, my lord. Well enough," she answered and a soft frown fell over Thranduil's face. He leaned forward to lift a finely crafted plate containing lightly flavored crackers to within her reach, watching as she took one and nibbled upon it as beside them, Glorfindel selected a number of morsels for his own platter. Thranduil then did likewise, anxious not to push Nieniriathlim to explain her enigmatic answer, when, upon finishing the cracker she said, "In the garden today, there was a strange occurrence. I… I found something."

His frown deepened, and Thranduil set down his latest selection on the side of his dish.

"Nothing terrible, I hope?"

"Quite the opposite, Thranduil," she said so softly that he almost had to lean toward her to hear her clearly. "Although…"

"Yes?"

"The maid's reactions… and a flash of sensation I had when first I held it.  They have unsettled me, and I…" her halting speech and the way she suddenly clutched her hands together in her skirts troubled Thranduil. For her to have gone from the self-assured elleth of moments ago, to this state of agitation bothered him.

"What manner of sensation, Celynen?"

He reached for her hand again, and she gave it willingly, as she said, whispered, "Fear, Arasfain.  Threat and fear… and the maids all acted as if I had found something of fell intent. Something dangerous.  I do not understand."

Aeons flashed through his mind as Thranduil searched for the memory of some incident that might have led Celyndailiel to feel threatened within her own home… to be afraid.  A sliver of ice moved over his spine.  He could think of only one such time – one such moment – that had drawn him into a war which had later cost him… everything.

"Show me," he breathed.

She freed her hand and reached within the pocket of her skirts to bring out a fragment of chain, with gems upon it, and for a moment her side of the table was alight with starlight. Glorfindel stifled a sharp inhalation, and Thranduil caught the hand in which Nieniriathlim held the gems.

"You were in the inner gardens, by the bed in which once grew gilded lilies, with the bench beside?" he did not need confirmation, but sought it anyway.

She nodded.

"Please tell me," she asked, and he knew that she had read the tumult of emotion rising in him. "I don't care how… frightened it might be, I…"

With all the subtlety of a cave troll, Glorfindel excused himself from the table, to give them space, though – Thranduil noted – he did not entirely leave the room.

"Once," Thranduil began, "There was a small group of traitors within these halls. Individuals that sought to break the strength of Eryn Galen, and draw our forces into a war with the Enemy." With a monumental effort of will he caged the storm of anger and jealous rage that played for the briefest of moments in his mind, to tell the tale as dispassionately as he could, but still as his words went on, he could not help but leak a little of his fears into the telling of it. "They took the queen from her gardens, used our son as leverage for her cooperation, and tried to take her north… North to the capital of Angmar, and to the Enemy's lieutenant there.

"We stopped them… at the western edge of the woodland," his voice dropped to a whisper, unable to tell all that had occurred – all that he feared _might_ occur – and all that had been said between them after. "…brought her home to our son, whom she had saved…"

Perhaps she sensed those things he had not said, for she dropped the gem encrusted fragment of chain into his hand and moved, rising to wrap her arms around his shoulders. Her hair fell like a curtain around them and she pressed her cheek to his.

"I am here now," she whispered, "and it is long passed. It cannot harm us more."

"You do not remember it?" he asked, turning his eyes to find hers. She met his gaze, relief, sorrow and truth mingled in her expression as she answered.

"I do not," she said.

"Then I am thankful for small mercies," he said, and reaching up, found her hand again and drew her around him, to where she perched on a low stool beside his leg, and leaned into his lap, just as she always had done when they were alone, or with only trusted friends – few enough to be had. After but a moment, he dropped the chain into her hand and closed her fingers around the shining gemstones.

"Keep it," he said. "For it is yours anyway, and soon enough, I promise, I will see that all I have ever given to you is returned."

As he spoke the promise, the image of a sundered necklace, fashioned of the heirlooms given to his mother by Melian in Doriath, and passed to him upon her death, when his father could not bear to keep them, came into his mind.

She shook her head, and reaching up to turn his face and bring his unfocussed gaze back to her, told him, "We have a guest, my king."

He cupped her face, passing a soft caress over her cheek bone, and nodding said, "You are right, my heart," and then raising his voice a little more called Glorfindel back to join them, so that they might finish their meal.

** ** **

Glorfindel had spent the long night in the library following their companionable dinner, and the longer he had spent in their joint presence, the more his lingering doubts that she was exactly whom Thranduil, and Elrond believed her to be, faded.  He too, if he were honest, had believed, but been unable to fathom the cause of the conditions of her return; that her re-embodiment had been through a second birth rather than, as he, simply being reclothed in flesh and returned to the bosom of Middle Earth.

There had to be a reason. The Valar did nothing without reason, and as amoral as they could be, they were rarely cruel for the sake of cruelty or sport. Even so, having watched the ebb and flow of personalities the evening before – one moment self-assured as Greenwood's queen, the next, as Nieniriathlim truly was, a bundle of nervousness as any maiden before the one she had come to love.  Not that he truly could recall the feeling of such a connection – denied to him as it had been long ago.

Thranduil's affection was unfaltering, and Glorfindel felt for him – perhaps _with_ him – the longing that the Elvenking must live through with each moment in her presence. By his word, the memory of whom she was returned to her at a moment of crisis, or with some kind of 'encounter' between them – and he could only guess at the extent of such moments, though he sensed no marriage link yet between their physical forms.

Their souls though, their light… it shone clearly to him, as though a beacon in the dark woodland, and he wished there were something he could do to help Nieniriathlim connect to who she had been, to remember her life, and her love with Thranduil and be always unafraid to act upon it.  Elrond was right.  They _were_ stronger together.

He thought back to the idea of crisis awakening memories, and remembered from his own return that this had – at first at least – been the case, and wondered if – perhaps – a little gentle pushing might not convey her closer to herself than she was now.  Perhaps if he could, he might yet be able to persuade Thranduil to send his queen to Rivendell for safety sake, until the manner of the warning Elrond had seen, and Celyndailiel herself had seen through the ages, could be brought to light.

"My Lady," he said, as he came upon her on a balcony overlooking the river.

"A pleasant surprise, Lord Glorfindel," she answered, offering him a smile, and in that smile he could see the queen, and thought it little wonder that she was so greatly loved, and highly spoken of by more than just Thranduil and Elrond. The statue at the entrance to Greenwood did not do her justice. "I trust you are well rested."

"I was in the libraries, my Lady," he said. "Seeking among the volumes there for anything that might… lift that which keeps you from your memories and your true self."

She sighed, and risking much, Glorfindel reached out and closed his hand about her arm.

At once the two guards at either side of the nearby doorway stiffened, their hands flying to their hilts, but Nieniriathlim held out a hand, palm down to stand them down, before looking up at Glorfindel.

Then, acting on a hunch, he said, "You lied to him."

Her face creased into a frown, and she tried to pull away from his grasp, but he held her, gently but firmly, and stepped closer, trapping her against the balcony rail. He ignored the shifting of the feet he heard behind him, though he knew he had mere seconds.

"Why?"

"He does not need to know, Glorfindel, that I felt their hands in my hair… the scratch of their nails as they tore free the bracelet from my arm…" She pushed at him, "…what good would it do?"

"And what good does it to keep it _from_ him?"

"He has suffered enough," she said, raising her voice, "He blames _himself_ when _I_ was the one that ultimately parted us – that _caused_ him this—"

He watched as her eyes became cast in a deeper, ocean blue, and far away as his hunch proved good, and she yielded to the press of memory.

** ** **

_His hand around her arm was a vice as he lifted her hooded and cloaked figure from the horse, and under the auspices of lovingly greeting his queen instead hissed in her ear in pique._

_"Celyndailiel, are you_ insane! _"_

_"Yes," she answered him, gripping the front of his cloak and maintaining no such illusion before_ anyone _. "Insane with worry for you, Thranduil – with knowing what it is awaits you in those fell tunnels!"_

_He pulled her with hurried steps into his pavilion, releasing her and turning to her._

_"They_ must _be faced, Mîrlosen," he implored her, "And by those of us that have a_ hope _of success."_

_"Slim hope, my love." She threw off her cloak, and reached for him, for the buckles on his shoulders, for she knew from chatter she had heard, that the King was heading for his rest before morning. "This foe is beyond us alone… and who stands with Greenwood?  Scant few."_

_"Angmar_ must _be laid low," he argued again, though she could tell that her words had reached him. "The Enemy would make a stronghold of it as it was through Morgoth's reign. That_ cannot _be.  Do you understand that?"_

_"I do, Thranduil, I do…" she caught his face between her hands as he tried to look away, met his eyes and asked without words, '_ but at what cost?'

_He answered her without words also; reached up to take her hands from his face, and gather her closer, as close as his still armored chest would allow and still maintain her comfort.  She did not care for comfort, and crushed herself to him._

_"U-wanna nin!" she begged, "Mai sír natha meth mín, u-edlenno nín o le."_

_He leaned down to her, crushed his lips to her, and lifted her into his arms to carry her more deeply into his pavilion, and through the movement, and the kiss, and as he set her down, with the familiarity of a beloved wife, she unfastened, and removed his armor, surrendering to all that he desired – which she desired just the same._

** ** **

_They had loved as only ever once before, and Thranduil ached at the ending of it, and at the look on her face as he set her, surrounded by six of his most trusted warriors onto her mount, with orders she was not to tarry, and ne'er stop until the gates of Greenwood were closed behind her._

_It was a bitter farewell, after such closeness – after such hope and promise… plea._

_He watched her fight not to turn back as they left the camp – picked up speed, to fly south, and east, toward the shadow of—_

A visceral sense of wrongness – of immediate, and not remembered, danger – assaulted Thranduil and shattered his reverie. On reflex he reached for his swords, drew both and began to move, reaching out with his senses, seeking for the Lady Nieniriathlim.

"Holo in ennyn! Tiro i defnin hain na ganed nin!"

Finding the soul he sought, he turned his steps that way, as the palace around him came to life with guardsmen who hurried to obey his command, to challenge any ingress within the halls, and the gardens – the balconies and the terraces, all armed, alert… ready.

The first wave of Orcs that crested the wall nearby to the river each fell, a green fletched arrow trembling to stillness within their falling corpses, but they were followed by more and in greater numbers, and it did not take but a moment for Thranduil to realize that they were headed for the balcony where Nieniriathlim had been looking out over the river.

** ** **

"Nan idh rîs!"

Glorfindel's warning, and the hiss of his blade clearing its sheath pulled Nieniriathlim from what lingered of her memories, fear… panic crowding in before she could catch herself to know that Glorfindel had misspoken, but neither had time to act upon the slip, before two Orcs from the next wave of intruders caught up to them, and Glorfindel stepped between her and the Orcs, sword raised to catch the downward swing of its spiked club.

The second tried to angle around the Elven warrior, reaching for Nieniriathlim, and she backed up with a yelp as its fingers grazed her skin.

"Inside, my lady!" Glorfindel called out, angling his blade to take down the second Orc as the first gave him ground, but more were coming, and Nieniriathlim feared she would not reach the doorway before they cut off her retreat.  She backed away, trying to keep them all in view; to anticipate where they might move, and dodge in opposite directions from their attempts to catch hold of her, and Glorfindel's interference in their intent, but a flanking group of Orcs cut off her escape, blocking the doorway, and trying not to panic, she looked around for another way to go as they began to close in around her.

Like an avenging angel, Thranduil crested the short stair leading up from the lower terrace. His swords blurred in the late morning sun as he fought through the swarming vermin to reach her side. His deadly blades sliced the air barely a breath away from her to cut down an Orc that dared to lay hand to her, and Thranduil stepped into the space left as the Orc fell away, facing Nieniriathlim to look in earnest into her eyes.

"If ever you were my wife," he said urgently, and with his words she felt his mind reaching for hers, "Heed me. Stay close, and do not let go!"

He picked up her hand and placed it against a spot in the rear of his belt that held his scabbards. Then without a further word, he turned away, back into the fight, into the fray, pushing forward, and taking her with him, through the mass of Orcs that reached for her, tried to separate her from him.

But in mind, they were one. She moved as he moved, turned with him, stepped and back-stepped as if in some complex dance. Where the Orcs would reach, there his swords would fall, as he fought in defense of her, and she in harmony with him, stayed close, like the folds of a living cloak she was to his back, and he the embodiment of a living shield about her.

One Orc fell, and then another, and a third.  All which came too close to her fell victim to the deadly accuracy of his blades, and inch by inch he moved with her ever nearer to the safety of the halls, as Greenwood's warriors made for the terrace to stand as a wall between their king, the lady and the maleficent intruders bent on ruin and death.

Upon the arrival of the palace guard, the tide soon turned, and those that survived of the Orcs began trying to find a way to retreat, to escape with their lives. The tumult faded, and soon, on the balcony, ringed with armed warrior, silence and stillness reigned.

Light glinted from the edge of Thranduil's blades, stained back with the blood of the many, slain Orcs that ringed where he stood, watchful for a long moment. Then he sheathed his blades, and in a fluid motion turned to Nieniriathlim and caught her by the hands.

He leaned down to murmur in question, "You are unharmed?"

She squeezed his fingers. "I am well, my lord."

He nodded then and releasing her swung round to face the captain of the watch, as he arrived from the lower terrace. She cringed at the tone in Thranduil's voice as he addressed the Elf.

"How did this happen? By what… failure was that filth permitted within the sanctuary of our halls?"

"My Lord, they came from nowhere," the captain apologized.

"They _came_ from the river!" the king snapped, "And were permitted to crest our walls and breach our defenses—!"

"Thranduil…" Nieniriathlim said softly from behind.

"—see to it that such a lapse in duty does not happen again—!"

"…Hîr nín…" she called again, taking a step toward him.

"—and pursue those that escaped. I want their heads, or I will—"

"...Arasfain."

She laid her hand gently in the center of his back, and circled around to the side of him to break his line of sight with the beleaguered captain.  As she turned to face him she raised her other hand to join the one that had trailed around him, against the center of his chest, above the still-too-rapid beat of his heart.

"You know as well as I," she murmured softly, catching his gaze with hers and not letting go, "that these Orcs were guided by some occult power and acted not alone. They were hidden from even the most watchful of us, but all is well… they are gone. We are safe… and this warrior fought with vigor, as did _all_ your guard."

As she spoke, she all but _felt_ the wave of something akin to awe travel out from where she stood before Thranduil, and behind her the captain of the guard lowered himself to one knee, and around them, one by one, the dozen or so warriors of the palace guard present on the balcony likewise sank into reflected gestures of reverence.

"Celyndailiel…" Thranduil breathed.

"An hi, amath nín," she all but sang, and reaching up, cupped the palm of her hand against his cheek.

For many long heartbeats, the moment lingered, as if some beautiful tableau, until the light scuff of footsteps drawing to a halt brought them all to life once more, and she turned her head to see that Legolas, with several more guard at his back, had emerged onto the balcony and ground to a halt.

She caught his eye, saw the confusion there… suspicion… as he stood with his head tilted, taking in the scene before him.  Her heart ached to see him thus and more… to know that he would not yet understand, even if he knew… too much had been left unsaid for too long. She felt Thranduil's pain mirror her own as the same sense of knowing had occurred in him.

In that moment, the king reached up to lift her hand from his cheek, gently caressing her fingers as he turned with her and released her just as gently toward the maids who seemed to materialize from the very walls of the inner hallway.

"Convey your lady to her apartments," he instructed, and then gestured also to the guard captain who rose slowly from his knee, and moved past his king to accompany the ladies, bringing with him his two lieutenants.

She took one last look over her shoulder, out toward Thranduil, and to Legolas who, as she left, approached his father, the same expression of pained suspicion on his face, and she sent a silent prayer, to whatever power would listen, for some way through the thorny maze they all faced.

"Lady…?" a maid said as she softly touched her arm, and at last, she turned and allowed them to lead her away.

** ** **

"Adar nín…?"

As the balcony began to clear, Legolas approached his father, his mind whirling – buzzing with a hornet's nest of questions and doubts… fears.  What was his father doing? Why did he allow the Elf maid to act with such familiarity?  Did his mother, then, mean nothing to the king?

He did not want to believe it of his father, and yet, before his eyes the two had stood, in near embrace, her hand upon his father's face as though in deepest affection.

And yet…

His father was not alone in his deference to the maiden. It seemed she had the entire palace all but entranced. What _was_ it he had come upon?

"Legolas," Thranduil spoke his name as if a plea, and had he not, after all, told his father he was content to wait until the truth was revealed?  He wanted to trust his father – he did, but in that moment the memory of his mother; the warmth of her arms around him, the outpouring of her love upon him.  His heart misgave him and _ached_ for the loss of her.

_Im ion pen-naneth._

He pulled the cloak of princely duty around himself as a shield against his pain and doubt, and standing straighter yet, asked, "Who sent them? What was their purpose?"

His father shook his head, "They carried no device by which I could identify their foul origin. I know only that they appeared to seek out the lady Nieniriathlim, our guest…"

He frowned as his father's voice faltered, and did not miss the way Glorfindel turned suddenly at the words his father spoke.

"…intent to do her harm," his father added, and Legolas was certain he had missed a portion of what his father had said.

"And she?" Legolas spoke the words before he could stop them from falling from his lips. "What is _her_ purpose with my lord father?"

"Legolas…" his father said in the same note of plea, mingled with warning.

"No, Ada," he stepped closer, a plea of his own clear in the tone with which he spoke. "Enough!  I cannot… what of my mother?

Thranduil took his arm and drew him closer still, hissing, "And what of you agreement to wait until such time as I _can_ tell you all you wish to know?"

"There are rumors," he said, and tugged his arm from his father's grasp. "Whispers that travel about the halls, and all of this…?" he gestured at the corpses littered about the balcony. "After what happened with Tauriel; after everything else? I worry for you Ada – that you could be deceived, and after so long…"

"Do not," his father began in anger, before lowering his voice back to the same tone as before, "think to speak on matters you do not understand!"

"Then _help_ me to understand!" he implored harshly.

He father shook his head, a look of sorrowing on his face.

"How can I," he asked, "When you have already closed your heart to all that I might say?"

Legolas stepped back, and glared at his father.

"Fine then," he snapped," keep your secrets, but know this… if I find that you have dishonored my mother…"

He did not finish the threat – could not, as he left the balcony, his eyes fixed on Glorfindel – for as much as he _feared_ his father's attitude and actions, a tiny voice, all but silent within him, spoke of a hope he dare not even _dare_ to dream.

** ** **

"Forgive me," he said from the doorway, by way of announcing himself, "That I did not come to check upon your comfort sooner than I have." Then added to the suddenly scurrying lady's maids, "Leave us."

The maids hurried to obey, as Nieniriathlim rose from her couch and turned to face him, hands clasped before her, such a familiar gesture he found himself holding his breath. He did not move, however, until the last maid had passed him, and the hallway behind him grown silent. Only then did he cross the room, lift her right hand into his, and kiss her knuckles tenderly.

"Ledich vae, calad nín?" he asked softly.

"Maint, hi i hind nín cên le," she answered, dipping a shallow curtsey from which he raised her, slipping both arms around her to draw her close, an _age_ old ritual between them, one that he had not dared before, and now, it left him almost aching with hope of an ending to their estrangement at the hands of the Valar. She leaned against him as if craving his warmth.

He held her for many long moments, before moving the both of them to the couch, drawing her down into it to sit with him, within the circle of his arms.

"I am afraid," she confessed, settling against him with her head on his shoulder, her silver hair mingling with the white blond of his own.

"Have I not promised I will keep you safe," he answered, holding her more tightly, _almost_ able to forget the differences – slight enough though they were – between her former, and later selves.

"How may you," she countered softly, though without reproach, "when I will be in Rivendell and you in Greenwood?"

He knew he should have been unsurprised that she had seen his intent before even he himself had admitted that it was what he would do, and yet it _did_ surprise him, though his heart filled with worry at it.

"After today, Mîrlosen, and until I discover who, or what power is behind the attack upon you, though it hurts my heart to think of us parted, I would rather I know that you are safe and with those I trust, since I must go abroad to discover where lies the threat."

"Lau, curen," she breathed against his neck, and he drew a sharp breath as his body answered to the softness of that touch. "It is not for me, nor even the distance I fear."

He pulled back to look at her in query, the unexpected nature of her words ghosted on his face. He followed the motion of her fingers, hands trembling as she traced a soft caress over his cheeks and the softness of his lips, fought the urge to kiss her fingertips as they descended to rest at his collar, over the stags head brooch he wore.

"It is knowing that I barely _feel_ you – your light – and will not once we are not connected by the place in which we both endure," she said and a sudden, terrible rush of emptiness assaulted him, crushed the breath from his lungs as her confession, and the realization that it was not the first time she had endured such a separation, as he encouraged her to go on with the softest of kisses to her brow. "Only once before have I _ever_ feared in such a way…"

_A steady rain had been falling for day, but had finally given way to a languid humidity which filled the air with a soup of shadowy fog, and blanketed the hills with an oppressive silence. Hooded, cloaked, she slipped through the spaces in between, spells of concealment barely a breath away from her lips, should she need them, but she need not have troubled herself – and that in itself was troubling – for the camp was at rest, the swordsmen and archers all huddled close about small braziers, lit for light and not for warmth._

_The command pavilion was not hard to locate. Larger than most – save the healers tent – banners hung limp upon crossed poles at each corner and beside the main doorway, through which she slipped, into the dim lit interior._

_Not until her feet were set upon the very ground on which he stood did the sense of him reach her, flood through her with an intensity that was almost debilitating, and yet, the greater pain came from the glint of the scant lantern light reflecting from the silver ring still about the index finger of his right hand._

_"These battles are a distraction," she said without preamble, pulling down her hood as all within turned to face her, and many hands flashed toward sword hilts, until Thranduil threw out his arm to stand them down. "I bring a warning… you_ cannot _trust Annatar."_

_Then facing Thranduil directly she challenged, "If_ ever _you held a_ shred _of affection for me, you will heed me, Prince of Greenwood and Cuivienen …"_

Tears filled his eyes as she fell to silence, reliving the memory along with the retelling of it, and in the silence he drew her closer, up into his lap and leaned back against the high, cushioned side of the couch, to cradle her against him, more precious than the rarest of gems in all of Middle Earth.

"Ai, Nienanín… Celynen," he whispered softly into her hair. "It need not be so.  Were you but to take your rightful place as my wife… my queen..."

"But how," she murmured, her voice breathy with tears of her own, "when one moment I remember myself, and the next I feel as a frightened child before a towering oak."

She drew away, steadied herself with her hands at his shoulders, and his own, automatically found her slender waist.

"And even were it true, and we reclaimed out virtue in ourselves and in each other," her eyes met his then, shining with the starry light of her unshed tears, "You would still send me away."

** ** **

Their arrival had been quietly made, no fanfare and no formality, and though they had been met by Elrond himself, it was as friends, and not as heads of state, or kings and noble lords and ladies.

The dining space, though, was awash with light and the strains of soft music soothed the air as for every formal meal at Imladris. For he had a reputation to uphold, after all, in maintaining the Last Homely House east of the sea.

Elrond smiled, as Thranduil – looking much refreshed from his journey – unexpected though _his_ arrival had been, joined him, and Glorfindel at the family table. Nearby the warmth of a blazing fire flickered its light over those that gathered there, for the evenings had grown chill as the season progressed.

"I was wondering when you would join us, my friend," Elrond said, and gestured to a steward, who came forward to hand a delicately crafted goblet, filled with an amber liquid, into the king's hand. "And I must say, you look well."

"No place so restful as the halls of Imladris," Thranduil answered, and raised his glass in salute to Elrond. "Nor yet as safe."

"I was just telling Elrond," Glorfindel looked up from where he sat tuning his harp, "The wilderness beyond Hithaeglir has grown more restless of late, and that he might need to increase the patrols he sends from Imladris into the mountains and the plains."

"And I said I would consider it," Elrond scolded Glorfindel with a good natured, but serious rebuke. "But come, no business this evening. This night is for feasting among friends and—"

He broke off as the hall descended into an awed hush, filled with expectancy, and he turned first toward Thranduil from whom he felt a torrent of emotion, but soon realized his error at the expression upon the king's face, and the direction of his gaze.

She stood between the two pillars that formed the archway at the head of the stair, and the folds of her gown spilled about her in silvery blue, like a waterfall in full moonlight. Her fair face conveyed a calming air of grace, and into her loose but intricately styled hair she had woven nine gems that shone with pure starlight.

Thranduil moved, slowly at first as if some dream hung over him, but half way across the floor, as those in his way moved aside, he found his purpose, and his steps became as self-assured as always; unhurried still, but with an intent that seemed urgent to Elrond, who looked beyond the physical to see the tangled and frayed bond that streamed, like ribbons between the two.

"My Lady."

Thranduil's voice drew him back to the moment, and he once more cast his eyes over the young maiden who now met the king, took his hand and dipped a low curtsey before him, full formal, but filled with the deepest of affection. If he had doubted before, all trace of reservation left him at the soft summer breeze of her answer.

"My Lord Thranduil."

** ** **

Since dinner, and the evening's festivities were long since at an end, Nieniriathlim took her leave of the company, and retired to the suite of rooms given to her by Elrond, delighting in the thought of soothing the well-hidden tensions that lingered within her – the want… the need… the longing for completion – in the warm waters of her bathing pool.

She dismissed the servants, unbound her hair and carefully put away the gems she had teased from the chain and woven into it, before wrapping herself in only a light robe to walk between her chamber of rest and the bathing room.

The sensations of it fluttering down her arms and spine as she cast it off before descending the steps into the buoyancy of the water enlivened her every nerve, sharpening the already pointed desires that lived as a part of her.  She breathed deeply of the fragrant steam that lifted off the water and settled back, closed her eyes, and let her mind wander.  She was awash with memories from the evening: Thranduil's nearness, his attentive affections, and the matching sense of need that she had felt in him, which seemed to have followed her as she left the gathering, for she could not ease him from her mind.

Not that she wanted to – and sighing softly – she reached out for the soft cloth set at the side of the sunken bath.

"Thand, sillech dae glân sui i ngiliath dû hen…"

His voice came softly from the doorway between her chamber of rest and the bathing room, and with a soft gasp, she turned in the water, crossing her arm before her to cover her nakedness. Still, when her eyes beheld him, she saw that he had given no such trespass. Though he stood against the frame of the door, his face was turned gallantly away.

He was lightly dressed in flowing, dark silvered robes that draped about him loosely, as if he too had attempted rest and found it eluded him, as it did her, and she could not help but hope that it was for the same reasons.

"Hîr nin milui pedi," she answered softly, and she shifted her gaze from him to try and locate where hung the warmed cloths left for drying.

As if he read her mind he moved with ease away from where he stood and crossed to the shelf set above a low coal filled brazier, his eyes downcast, and plucked a large folded square from atop the shelf before approaching the steps that led from the water.

"Ever has your beauty been without compare," he said as he came. "And my heart and soul… my life was lost to it – and to you – long before e'er we met."

He came to a halt at the top of the few short steps, and offered a hand in her direction. A heartbeat passed, and then another as indecision gripped her. Had she not been wishing… hoping for his presence as she bathed to try and soothe away the want of him? Why was she afraid?

She took a breath, gazing on his absolute and patient stillness; poised, controlled he stood, potential realized in the perfection of his form. Her breath shook, but her whole body cried out for him.

"Melethrilen," he whispered, and in his tone all of her reservations fled.

They moved as one. She reached up to slip her wet hand into the secure warmth of his grasp and he stepped one bare foot down onto a lower step, the hem of his robe barely trailing in the water as he helped her up. As she came, with his free hand he shook out the folded cloth and once she crested the stair, caught the other side of it and enfolding her in its softness, wrapped it around her, then lifted her, it seemed without effort, into his arms.

He did not set her down again until they reached the warmth of her chamber, and then it was to set her in his lap as he sat upon the low couch before the fireplace, keeping her in his arms as he turned in earnest to look upon her face, his own creased with a beatific kind of agony as he spoke again.

"I am your servant, my beloved," he said, "Only speak the words and if it is your wish, I will leave you to the peace of the night, though it would be as a kind of death to me. Or speak another fate, and name me yours, and everything that I possess, _everything_ that I am or could ever hope to be shall be yours until eternity should end."

She met his eyes, reached up to trace around them with gentle touches of her fingertips, and to watch as he leaned into the touch, turning his head enough to catch the fleet brushing of them more firmly at his temple.

"I don't want you to leave," she whispered, "Thranduil… stay."

At her words he brought his mouth to cover hers, his lips brushing hers with the softness of a prayer. She reached beyond his temple to run her fingers into his hair, as the press of his kiss became firmer, more fervent, and invited her to open to the reverent exploration of the warm cavern of her mouth. His tongue teased against hers, kindling sensations that delighted in bringing to life every nerve that she possessed and centering the added want at the very core of her; aching sweetly at the apex of her thighs.

Like the passing of a sigh, the kiss ended, and he eased her away, shifting beneath her enough to set her feet upon the thickly carpeted floor.

"Stand, my sweet angel," he told her, and as she did as he guided her to, he slipped to kneel before her, reaching up to free the towel from around her body, easing her around as he did until her back was to him, and with soft, sure strokes – gentle and loving – began to dry what remained of the moisture from her shoulders, her spine, and lower to her buttocks and her thighs, before the rustle of cloth behind her told her he had risen to his feet.

She gasped softly at the unexpected press of his lips at her shoulder, and whispered his name.  He echoed with hers, her true name – the name of her first birth, and she felt the air around them shimmer with a kind of worshipful expectancy.

"…Finarfinwen Celyndailiel…" Again he guided her to turn, only caught her hands as she might have covered herself from his gaze once more. "U-boe nach gaer o nín, Bereth nín."

He kissed her then, and she wound her arms around his shoulders, as with the progress of his kiss he began to tenderly run the towel down over her shoulders, blotting what little remained of the bathwater from her skin before abandoning the cloth, the fall of it between their feet almost unheeded as her full attention was possessed by the touch of his caress at her breasts as his hands began to move over her.

She freed the tightness of her grasp from his shoulders as he stooped to follow the touch of his fingers with the soft press of his mouth, the brush of his lips mapping the hills and valley of the firm globes of her breasts and the space between.

Gracefully he lowered himself once more to his knees before her, his kisses descending over the flatness of her stomach, which quivered beneath each touch, his hands at her hips a tangible connection between them in contrast to the wing-like flutter of his lips on her skin.

A kiss pressed barely above the mound of her sex, and she ran her fingers once more into the softness of his hair.

"Here, yet, is there water that I would not dry," he said quietly, and she blushed, then released a short cry as his lips brushed lower yet, to bathe the softness of her folds with the tender pull of a kiss. Her head spun with increased need and the ache that held her spread as a languid heat deep into her belly and down to weaken her legs to within the threat of inability to stand any longer.

Like the dawn, he rose, slipping off his own robe as he did, to stand before her full and proud in want of her, the hard planes of his muscled chest hers to see… to touch… the whole of him only hers.  He took her hand, and led her the short distance to the large, canopied bed on which he reclined, and drew her to lie with him, gathering her again within the protective, possessive circle of his arms – and yet she knew that it was he that was possessed, and she the light he worshipped beyond reason.

"Im Bereth lín," she murmured against his shoulder as he held her close, "dan… im riss. Caro nín pant."

He breathed a long, slow exhalation, his hand swallowed hers as he captured her fingers in his to bring her touch to his body, to guide her fingers over him only to retreat as she made a map of his shoulders, his chest, and stomach.  His kisses fell like hot summer rain over her neck and shoulders, his legs and feet tangling with hers as he gathered her closer and closer yet, as the touch of her fingers dipped lower until their hesitant fluttering met the strength of his risen heat.

He gave the soft sound of a Hithui Stag as she explored his length with her touch, and she answered with a lighter cry as his fingers teased within her shielding folds, opened to him as he eased her thigh over his hip in drawing her closer. His touch, the sensation of him, velvet in the palm of her hand, the tentative intrusion of the tip of his finger, barely inside of her left her breathless, aching with unfolding life.

"Caro nín pant," she repeated, the words a breathy sigh as she released him, only to reach up and draw his mouth to hers, guiding him to rise above her, scorching like the sun at her zenith. She lost herself to the kiss he gave to her, to the taste of him in her mouth and to the cry she gave wordlessly into his as she welcomed the sweet, sharp stab of becoming one with her lord as he filled her – sure and strong and true.

_Hervennen!_

Her mind cried out to his in that moment, and his answered, in a spiral of bright and vigorous green.

_Berethen!_

"Ai, i-aran nín," she whispered as he broke from the kiss, to look upon her, a softness in his expression that was suddenly so familiar, so welcome that tears came to her eyes that had nothing to do with the lingering pain of her surrender.

"Ai, manen melan le!" he breathed, lifting away the tears with the tenderness of kisses and the soft caress of his touch at her cheek.

Slowly as the moment faded he began to move again, rocking her in the cradle of his arms, worshipping the whole of her with the rhythmic give and take of his body inside of hers. What began as a breathlessness only grew to the brightest of light and heat within as each sensation he gave to her built upon the last until at last, as wave upon wave crested in her soul, her pleasure overflowed and cascaded through the whole of her.  He followed her into that precious moment of the deathless ending of immortality, filling her with the essence of his soul, his very being at one with hers once more.  _Never more to be sundered._

"Never more," he gasped in promise, and she knew he had heard the very words she had thought, and lay back, still joined, to cradle her against him, her body pillowed upon his as the intensity of their shared passion faded to the deeply conjoined heartbeat of two souls made one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lau, idh rîs nin – no my queen
> 
> na buiad lin – at your service
> 
> Meluien – my sweet
> 
> U-wanna nin – do not leave me
> 
> Mai sír natha meth mín, u-edlenno nín o le – if this night is to be our last, do not send me from you.
> 
> Holo in ennyn! Tiro i defnin hain na ganed nin! – close the gate! Keep it sealed, I order it!
> 
> Nan idh rîs! – Look to the queen!
> 
> An hi, amath nín – for now, my shield
> 
> Adar nín? – father? [Lit: Father mine?]
> 
> Im ion pen-naneth – I am a motherless son
> 
> Ledich vae, calad nín? – How are you, my light?
> 
> Maint, hi i hind nín cên le – Better, now that my eyes behold you
> 
> Lau, curen – no, my heart
> 
> Thand, sillech dae glân sui i ngiliath dû hen – truly you outshone the stars tonight
> 
> Hîr nin milui pedi – My lord is kind to say so
> 
> Melethrilen – my beloved
> 
> U-boe nach gaer o nín, Bereth nín – you need not be shy before me, my queen.
> 
> Im Bereth lín – I am your queen
> 
> dan… im riss – but… I am fractured
> 
> Caro nín pant – make me whole
> 
> Hithui – November
> 
> Hervennen – My husband
> 
> Berethen – my wife (and queen)
> 
> Ai, i-aran nín – oh, my king
> 
> Ai, manen melan le – oh, how I love you
> 
> The quotation at the head of this chapter reflects the plea that Thranduil makes to Nieniriathlim as he holds her in front of the fireplace in her chamber after her bath.


	21. Anathathan Aen Uir An Le

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - WARNING - Some parts of this chapter may be triggering for some people.

Second Age of Middle Earth – 1575

 

_Anatho nín, iest nín an le, sen dû min buig._

Celyndailiel missed the ocean, and the ocean breeze.

Even the moist wind blowing across the hills from rivers did nothing to satisfy her craving, and a deep sense of homesickness gripped her.  She shifted the reins in her hand, and sighed as the mount danced beneath her as though he could feel her restlessness.

She looked over to where her companion rode, then looking skyward for a moment called over to her.

"Celebrían," she said, "The hour is growing late.  We should return before we stray too far from Ost-in-Edhil."

Celebrían reined in, her fair face creased into an expression of disappointment.

"But Celyn—"

"No buts," she said, and shook her head, "I promised Celebrimbor I would watch out for you if he allowed us to ride out of the city and I do not intend to fail in that responsibility."

"I'm not a child," Celebrían insisted, and Celyndailiel could not help but feel sympathy for the younger Elf, certain that she felt just as confined as _she_ did within the Elven stronghold where the traders and artisans worked tirelessly, and two young Elf maidens sent under the auspices of learning from a Master remained at the mercy of their own ability to occupy their own curiosities.

"I know you are not," Celyndailiel said, "but you _are_ subject to Celebrimbor's word, as am I to his and to the King's, and to both I have pledged that I will let no harm come to you.  They'd have my _head_ Celebrían, not to mention your mother and father would—"

"What if we were to pay a visit to King Durin, and sent word from Moria that we were safe and—"

"No."

"But we are not so far from the Redhorn Pass now, and the Gates of Moria stand—"

Celyndailiel reached across to catch hold of Celebrían's hand, a smile upon her face, knowing that her friend merely gave sport in an effort to delay their inevitable return.  The moment her fingertips met Celebrían's skin, the present faded and a distant thunder rumbled, and in the sudden and cold dread of fear that had come from nowhere and taken up purpose in her heart she heard voices.

Hateful and harsh, in the corrupt speech of the Morgoth's servants the ancient fears rekindle in her again at simply hearing it spoken, but the words… _"Take what you want then… and be quick about it. Where there's one, there's more."_

…and the emotions, and the feeling, as if of a run of blood, all proved too much – too real.

_"There's no more coming – and there's plenty here for everyone. You—"_

The touch of a cold talon at her ankle startled Celyndailiel, and with a cry she pulled away from Celebrían, and pulled so suddenly and so hard on her mount's rein that the animal shied, reared, and as unbalanced as she already was, Celyndailiel tumbled suddenly backwards, slipping from the horse to land winded again a bolder in the rocky hillside. The horse, startled, bolted away.

For long moments she sat dazed, fighting for breath, fighting for the _present_ and not whenever it was she had seen; to shake the impressions which, even now, were settling into her memory as if they had already and always been.

_"Take what you want then…"_

Fear and anger bubbled together, akin to the elements in Celebrimbor's laboratory and she could not contain them – would not, not if she could change what she had seen.  She pushed herself to her feet, hurried to her friend's side and without warning, reached up to pull her down, almost shaking her the moment her feet touched the ground.

"You are never to go to Moria," she said, and she pierced her friend's startled expression with the focus of her ocean-blue eyes. Then shaking her again, pressing her against the horse from which she had all but dragged her and added, "And promise me you will never travel alone through the Redhorn Pass—"

"Celyn…"

"Never! Do you hear me?  Swear it."

"You're hurting me."

"Swear!"

"Celyndailiel, let her go!"

Celebrimbor's voice came from behind and above the both of them, still mounted as he was, and she turned, releasing the grasp of one hand from Celebrían as she did, and felt the other Elf pull away from her single handed grasp.

"I will not ask you the meaning of this," he said, and Celyndailiel looked down as his shadow fell across her, before looking over to where Celebrían had retreated. "Only trust you to sort whatever differences you may have between you in a matter more seemly for ladies of your station."

"Forgive me, my Lord," she said, still looking at her friend, to whom she added, "Celi, please… I only worried. I saw—"

Before she could go on, Celebrimbor interrupted.

"You are overdue, both of you, and it is some way yet back to Ost-in-Edhil." He began to turn his mount, and nodded to Celebrían to climb back onto her horse. "Make your peace later.  Celyndailiel, you are with me."

She expected a lecture, especially as, after drawing her up in front of him, he set a slower pace than the care-free lope at which Celebrían rode. The words, when they came, were soft and spoken with sympathy.

"If what you saw was a measure of her fate, you cannot speak of it… not to Celebrían, perhaps not to anyone." He shook his head as if he could guess her objection before she even tried to make it.

"But if we see a fell fate and leave those we love to walk blindly to it—"

"Who is to say that in speaking of it, you will not bring it the faster, or more certain," he said.

"I won't accept that," she said, "I can't.  All my life I have been… _plagued_ by insight and have stayed silent, and still those things that were sent as _warnings_ to me assailed those I care for. If I can do _nothing_ why do I see?"

He chuckled then. "A true riddle, Celyndailiel. You remind me of Elrond."

"You could compare me to an Elf of lesser renown," she said. "I am honored."

"Don't be," he said curtly. "Between he and the King they bring nothing but added troubles to my door – and added complications, and my work is complex enough as it is."

Celyndailiel tried, and failed, to suppress a shiver that passed through her at his words, at the mention of his work.  He noticed and sighed. Many times of late she had voiced her objections, her warnings about becoming more involved in the alchemy Annatar proposed in order to make the jewels he was crafting stronger, more enduring; the rings more effective and with greater power; was guided by the other Elf.

"I only… worry, my lord," she said, "the sense of him… his intent…  What do you know of these things?"

"I know that under his guidance, we can craft as our ancestors did, Celyndailiel."

She turned her head to look at him, and arch expression on her face, her mind filled with thoughts of her Féanorian ancestors, and he gave her a soft smile.

"I am careful, I promise you," he said, "My memory is not quite so short as you seem to think."

** ** **

"Garo i hâd!"

Thranduil stood, poised beside the warriors at his command. Outnumbered at least three to one, his company faced the swarming nest of Orcs they had uncovered – disturbed as they would have bedded in at the western edge of Greenwood – caught in the process of defiling the living wood; tearing down trees.  Now they stood a disciplined force, coiled and ready as the rabble made their charge, heavy, primitive weapons leading, sneering and growling as they came.

"Garo…!" he repeated, drawing himself up and shifting his grasp slightly on the hilt of his blades, he let out a slow, calming breath, counting heartbeats as the rush of snarling madness closed in.

He sensed fear – not his own, for he had little care for his own fate – but from within the ranks of his company, some as yet warriors untried in true combat; young enough to have not seen war.

"Garo…!" he repeated a third time, trying to instill a tone of confidence in his voice that would lift the warriors of the company. There was no more time to do more, or give more than the counter order as the first or the Orcs came within reach.

"Maetho!"

As if coming to life after a dream, he moved with deadly grace. He struck with his swords, once held still in dangerous potential. They struck, one up, the second down, their actions a mirror of each other and an orc, near cloven in two in the ferocity of his attack, fell before him.

The tide of Orcs flowed like stinking water around him, but it mattered not to him that they surrounded him. He would prevail… or he would fall. Those were the only options.

Instinct turned him. His sword flashed again in the moonlight and another Orc fell amid a spray of black blood, while his off-hand he angled up and back, diagonally across his own shoulders – an expert parry against the descent of a thick blade of Orcish iron aimed for his back.  He turned again, spinning beneath his own sword, still locked with the heavier Orc blade and punched forward. The tip of his primary weapon found the weak point in the crude armor the Orc wore, and he drove the fine, Elvish steel through his would-be assassin, before pushing with both arms to send the dying Orc stumbling into the still fighting ranks of its nest-mates. He watched for barely a moment before he whirled away, striding once more into the chaos of the battle.

He was order within that chaos. He reached deeply within and centered himself within the heartbeat of Woodland, and with the whole of himself, fought in its defense. Where there was Shadow, so he struck; where the filth of a corrupted soul despoiled the Land, so he cut away the lingering blight, and around him, Orcs fell. Those that did not began to seek a way to retreat, regroup; to come at him now in twos and threes.

He did not falter; simply reached deeper within the Land, connected with greater focus to the spirit of the world.

_In his mind an urgent cry burst upon him, as if from a tiny voice, and far away; sent up a plea for escape and aid._

It was for a moment only, but it filled him with a deep seated fear and he mis-stepped, his foot turned on the uneven, corpse littered ground, and rather than wheel to regain his balance, he dropped one knee beneath him, angling both blades up to catch the strikes of Orcs who – thinking their fortunes had changed – all attacked as though they thought him vulnerable.

On one knee he turned, swords wheeling – striking out in a deadly spiral as he began to rise, freeing his attention as he did, from the lingering voice and accompanying fear that was suddenly a part of him; a plea for ease, for release.

** ** **

In spite of the chill in the night air, Celyndailiel had insisted her maids leave the balcony doors ajar. She could not stand to be caged, and sat gazing at the rippling of the drapes as her ladies brushed out her hair until it shone like spun mithril in the lantern light.

Slow, measured footsteps came to a halt, prompting a brief outburst of nervous mewling, before the deep voice, filled with quiet disharmony, ordered, "Leave us."

Celyndailiel all but leaped to her feet at the scurrying of her maids, and turned in near outrage to face the figure still lingering in the doorway.

"How dare you presume—" she began, taking a few, outraged steps toward him.

"My presumption holds no daring," Annatar said, peeling away from the doorway to stalk toward Celyndailiel, his tone and his manner murdering her outrage where she came to a sudden, startled halt. "Lady Celyndailiel, why do you persist…?"

He reached out toward her then, being within reach, and she cringed inwardly, though found she could not move, as he allowed the fine strands of her hair to run through his fingers.

"…continue to resist," he continued, dipping his hand to find hers, to raise her fingers in his, running the tips of his along the slender length of her fingers, "when you are possessed of a heart free, no ties that bind, no bonds of soul nor light…"

Warring warm attraction and chilled disgust spiraled around her, leaving her mind sickened and reeling with confusion, but deeper within, at a level more primal, a visceral sense of being, her soul cried out, pleading for a way to escape, beseeching for aid – reaching for a single fëa…

"You have," she began breathlessly, then snatched a breath and began again, "You have neither _right_ nor invitation to _be_ here!"

She pulled against the hold of his hand on hers, unable, at first, to free herself. The more she fought to free herself, the more tightly she became entangled, until at last she raised her other hand to push at his chest.  As she did, he released her, and off balance – in order to avoid stumbling – she caught herself on the lapel of his outer robe.

"You see, Artanisnya," he murmured, stepping closer even as she backed away, following her and cupping his hands beneath her elbows, "You need me…"

"I _despise_ you!" she spat.

"Even so," he breathed, leaning toward her, and the raw, untamed energies of him covered her, whirled around her leaving her breathless, dizzy; a yearning beginning deep in the seat of her being, "you _will_ welcome me to cover you; open your fëa, that has been so cruelly betrayed… to me."

She snatched breath after breath, trying with eveyr part of her being to close herself to his essence, but she had never felt such energies in an Elf before, not even among the Elders of her kind… even Maedros and the unfettered power of the Silmaril had not been so. Nothing she could do allowed her to deny the dominating press of his will, and the answering betrayal of her body.

_…And willingly…_

Her eyes flew open – before she even realized they had closed – and for the briefest of moments, seeing beyond the physical it seemed to her that all the winds of the word blew around Annatar, blurring reality and ringing him with fire – dark fire – terrible as the fiercest storm. Armies marched, and died upon a blood soaked field, and she saw herself thrown weeping over the figure of an Elf she could not see, but knew she loved.

Then, abruptly it was gone – all gone. The energies she had felt were gone, the threat, and he was just Annatar, the Elven stranger, standing far too close, holding her entirely too familiarly, his mouth barely a breath from hers, breathing her breath.

"Never will I reach for you!" she hissed, and pushed at him again, and this time he released her.  She stumbled, reaching out to catch herself on the post of her bed – realizing only then just how close they had been to it. "Celebrimbor—"

"Will hear nothing of this," he said, cutting her off. "You will speak of it to _no one_."

** ** **

Thranduil tossed his bloodstained cloak to the young steward that was running to keep up with him as he strode across the courtyard toward the inner confines of the fortress in the foothills of Emyn Duir. He ached, with many cuts and bruises from the recent battles that were drawing ever nearer and nearer to the refuge of his people, and fouler things than just Orcs and Goblins had begun to cross the paths of his Company.

But these Orcs, among all the others, he felt they had a plan, read almost _taunt_ in their actions as they had attacked, as if some fell power were guiding their hands, or at the very least commanding their purpose. Yet at the same time there was little organization. They were scattered, their attacks random… as if designed to confuse.

Guards moved to open the double doors into his father's council hall, and he did not even have to break stride as he moved within, the words of a senior captain reaching him as he did.

"…down the Forest River, My Lord, which would suggest their origins from Ered Mithrin, or even the iron hills." The captain said, "I would advise we trace these foul beasts back to their source and—"

"That would be a mistake," Thranduil said without preamble, cutting off the rest of the captain's words.

His father raised his head to look on him, and frowned deeply, gesturing to serving staff at the side of the hall, who rushed toward Thranduil bearing bowls of warmed water that steamed in the relative cool of the stone surroundings.

"These Orcs," Thranduil said. "They do not act alone, and I fear their presence and their actions mask either a greater plan, or more insidious actions elsewhere."

"A distraction?" he father translated, and Thranduil did not miss the note of disbelief in Oropher's voice.

"To all intents and purposes, yes," Thranduil said as he washed his hands and cleansed his face as best he could, patting his sore, scratched cheek dry on a cloth that was instantly replace by a second, softer towel as he repeated the action.  He would have to remove his armor and bathe completely to rid himself of the lingering blood – both that of the Orcs, and his own – but that would wait.

He dismissed the servant from his side and strode over to the map over which his father leaned, of Greenwood and Rhovanion, and Esgaroth, and beyond the lands of Rhûn to the East.  His fingers as he came closer, settled and lingered near the Sea of Rhûn, and he refused to allow his eyes to move westerly enough to take in Lindon… love and duty still at war within him.  He took a breath and forced himself to focus.

"Just today, my Company and I have faced a dozen or so separate encounters with their foul nests, and yet the largest of them, and most fiercely fought we met _here_ , right in the heart of Greenwood, keeping our attention firmly fixed upon our own lands."

"As it should be," snapped his father.

"Agreed," Thranduil said, though in that moment his eyes flicked west toward Lindon, and he was not as sure that he was convinced for his belief in that. "However does it not beg the question: what are they trying to hide?"

"Perhaps _this_ will give you the news from other lands that you crave," his father said, somewhat testily, and slid a sealed missive across the top of the map and into Thranduil's hand.  For a moment he held his breath, trying not to hope too much that the message hailed from Lindon, even from Gil-galad, would help to make him feel… more connected; less like an Elf in exile.

"It is from your betrothed," his father announced, and as if he felt that Thranduil had forgotten, added, "Queen of Cuivienen."

"I see that," he snapped, and reaching for the seal, broke it with his thumbnail, scanning his eyes over the hurriedly written Tengwar as he opened the letter.

_My dearest Thranduil,_

_If you are receiving this letter, then all is not well for us here in the East, and I would wager, little better for the western lands of Middle Earth in our wake. I had hoped that whatever unrest it was my people faced would long since have passed and you and I would, by now, be united. This wish I expressed when last I wrote, but day by day, and year upon year, matters have grown ever more restless, and I begin to despair that we might never see one another again._

_And now, I must prevail upon you to carry out an urgent warning and become my emissary before your Lord Father, and your High King, which I_ know _will not please Oropher, for you to travel west again, but I must insist, not only as the one to whom you are pledged, but as your Queen and ally._

_I fear Cuivienen may not entirely stem the tide that seems to be gathering, to what purpose I know not.  They hunt our woodlands, these men – Easterlings, and Haradians come up from the south, as well as the Corrupted, and other fell creatures. I send my loyal servants to discover their intent for they seem to gather, and hunt as though to supply a long journey, but do not yet advance westward as you and your father had suggested they would._

_It is in my heart to think that they will strike first at Cuivienen and destroy us utterly. If Cuivienen falls, only Greenwood will stand between this host and the West, and until I can discover its purpose – and discover it I will, my beloved lord, I promise you – we must assume, do you not think, that their sight is set upon the strength of Elvendom upon Middle Earth, which lies ever westward, and more civilized than we who stand more dangerous and less wise than our High Kin – yet you, my lord embrace that which is best among the both, by some divine grace, and it is that grace on which I needs must draw._

_Warn them, Thranduil. War is coming, and as soon as I can tell its nature, I will speak of it only with you, for my trust is in you, and in that you are well._

_I remain your faithful Queen  
Válinsillúle _

He looked up from the letter, his jaw tight, knowing that his father would be waiting on his word. Knowing, too, that Válinsillúle was correct in that his father would not be pleased, nor yet eager to send him westward again.

"She warns of an army gathering on the plains of Rhûn, against which our allies must be warned, my lord," he said.

"Allies, Thranduil?" Oropher raised an eyebrow. "In other words she would have me send you back to the very jaws of ruin from which I dragged you these several centuries past?  No.  Out of the question!"

"I adar lín, u-gerich cilad," he snapped, then tossing the letter so that it skittered across the table toward his father, he quoted, "…I must insist, not only as the one to whom you are pledged, but as your Queen and ally."

Oropher snatched up the letter, scanning the text rapidly, his expression darkening with each word he read.

"I would also suggest we sent the same warning to Amdir in Lorien," Thranduil said, serious even as he felt a small measure of perverse triumph at his father's inevitable defeat. "They too stand in the path of danger, should this expected storm break."

** ** **

Wisely, so his father told Thranduil, King Amdir refused to allow _any_ ingress into the woodlands of Lorien, not even other Elves; those ever before considered friends. Messengers returned instead demanding that the meeting be set upon the banks of the Silverlode within the shadow of the Misty Mountains.  It seemed a plan entirely _unwise_ to Thranduil, as he sat atop his horse watching as the shadow of clouds shifted across high hillsides entirely too busy to give him ease.

"I like not the feel of this," he said quietly, shifting in the saddle as he addressed Galion, who rode at his side to the meeting, and who now awaited their companions, should they come, representatives from Lorien, and from the High King in the West. At their back a small company of Greenwood's Guard stood in readiness. Still, save for the fluttering of their russet cloaks in the breeze.

Galion shook his head in apparent agreement, both watching the pass over which any representative from Lindon might come.

"There!" Thranduil pointed high into the hillside, where a shadow moved against the motion of the scudding cloud above. "Movement."

"An ambush," Galion said, "And from the Western side of the pass, they would be much better hidden. The party from Lindon…"

"Would not stand a chance," Thranduil finished darkly. He turned in the saddle to quickly scan the nearest edge of Lorien, before raising a hand to call his second forward.

"Quietly - divide your company," he ordered, "Have half of them prepare to take the hill, the others as archers… we will flush them out like pheasants at a hunt!"

"Yes, my Lord," the company commander said, and returning to the ranks began to move among them, murmuring softly.

"You're going up there, aren't you?" Galion asked suddenly.

He arched an eyebrow as he turned to Galion, then frowned as he saw real fear in the eyes of his ever faithful steward, realizing, perhaps for the first time, the depth of the connection the other Elf felt with him, not simply as Lord and subject, but as a friend, and not for the first time did Thranduil realize how few of those he truly had.

He reached over and lay his hand onto Galion's lightly armored forearm.

"Galion, if I am to be a leader to our people, and to succeed my father as their king, I cannot expect that they would endanger themselves where I would not.  I cannot ask of them anything that I am not prepared, myself, to give."

"I…" Galion faltered, "I know my lor—"

"Thranduil."

"I know, Thranduil," Galion began again, tears rimming his golden eyes, "but my fear for you mounts with each day – with each _battle_ into which you throw yourself. This union with Cuivienen, this alliance, it has taken the very _heart_ of you and molded it into a bitter recklessness that I fear will be your undoing. You cannot lead our people, nor succeed your lord father as king if you are dead."

Thranduil closed his eyes and sighed, a knot in his throat that prevented an answer for a long moment, before he tightened his grasp on Galion's arm, and speaking softly said, "Ride with me then. Fight at my side, and I promise you we _will_ prevail… now and for _long_ years to come."

"Maethathan uireb na forvo lín, ernil o cuilen," Galion whispered, and with a breath straightened in the saddle.

"Meldiren," Thranduil breathed.

Behind them, the portion of the company that would fight with them had assembled at their backs, the archers subtly shifted off to one side, and with a final nod to Galion, Thranduil straightened and flicking his rein, set his horse into a slow, forward motion, sensing that behind him, the Warriors of Greenwood, moving as one, had readied their blades, and were pressing forward. In half the distance, the sigh of arrows drawn and set to bowstrings reached Thranduil's ears.  He did not need to turn and see to know that the Warriors that remained downhill of them had to the last drawn and already aimed their weapons.

He left it as late as he dared, before he let out a single command.

"Leithio!"

The air was filled with the song of arrows in flight, which soared over the heads of the advancing Elves and up into the concealing shadows. Out of the patches of dark came cries, and at the second volley of arrows, like ants from a disturbed anthill, snarling Orcs.

Without pause, Thranduil spurred his horse into the forward, suddenly swirling chaos, feeling Galion at his side. He narrowed his focus, his blades becoming an extension of his will, striking at the milling Orcs, guiding the horse by pressure of his knees alone, ducking or dodging where he could not parry their desperate counter strikes.

A particular well-coordinated, concentrated strike from a small group of Orcs broke through his seemingly impenetrable shield, the blade of one Orc bouncing across his arm guards before he managed to throw himself aside, rolling from the back of his mount before slapping it quickly to send it to safety, to stand, surrounded by Orcs in a small, rocky clearing.

He held to stillness for a moment, counting heartbeats, assessing his foe, then as the first move, so too did he, blurring into motion, he cut the first Orc down before it could even raise its crude weapon in defense. Reversing the direction of his attack, he jabbed backwards, beneath his own arm, stabbing the creature behind him in the top of its chest and releasing a spray of blood into the air as he turned again, freeing his blade from the second Orc to meet the attack of a third that dared to challenge him.

More skilled than most, it took Thranduil several decoy strikes before a fourth, slashing arc of his sword sliced through Orcish flesh and sinew, and he turned aside from the spray of arterial blood, as foul as the creature it sustained, as he all but severed the Orc's head, ducking in time to save a strike to his own from one among the dwindling number of foes. Even as he straightened, he resumed his attack, driving the Orc back toward a gap in the rocky surround.  It snarled, finding courage from somewhere to reverse its fortune, pressing an attack that it could not possibly hope to win. Thranduil countered, forcing the Orc to parry higher and higher, until he caught its descending blade on his offhand, and with a diagonal, downward swipe of his primary hand, Thranduil gutted the creature where it stood.

A sound from against the rock to his left made Thranduil turn, left arm across his own body in an additional defensive attitude, drawing blades up and back in preparation to strike, poised above his right shoulder.

"I ûr… hír… nín…"

He froze.

_…Easterlings, and Haradians come up from the south, as well as the Corrupted…_

It was an open, and rarely spoken secret among Elves that the genesis or Orcish kind came from among Elves who had been tortured, and corrupted by magic. Válinsillúle had spoken of it in her letter, but to see it there, so clearly before his eyes – the young Orc, and female by the look – held against the rock by fear of him, and pleading for mercy, it chilled him in a way that little had in many millennia.

His breathing came in short, pained and angry gasps, and faster than a blink he brought his blade to rest at the Orc's throat.

"Manmin herdireg?" he demanded, then more forceful still as she shied away he added, "Speak!"

"No… please…" she whimpered.

"Who!?" he asked again, his voice like thunder.

"Shining… west and… east," she turned enough to almost reach for him with filthy, imploring hands, "Always… everywhere…" Her half-transformed eyes screamed in agony for release from torment, and she reached for him again, repeating, "Mercy!"

He twitched his wrists, and followed through the motion to throw out his arms to each side of him, his crossed swords taking the Elf-Orc's head from her shoulders, then he stumbled, catching himself against the side of the rock by his right wrist, still fisted about his dripping blade, fighting for breath, and to control the nausea rising in him as the thought of another face, transformed, washed over him.

Another volley of arrows flashed overhead into the brush behind him, drawing him back from the edge of horror, and vaguely he recognized that their color was not that of Greenwood, but the gold of Lorien, and from behind him, a strong, sure voice addressed him.

"I believe, Greenwood, that this is yours."

He turned, keeping his back against the rock-face, not yet trusting his legs to hold him completely, drawing in breath after breath, his expression still one of anguish.

"Elrond," he let out the name of the Elf that had addressed him as though a sigh of relief.

"And well met, Thranduil," Elrond answered, reaching down to take his arm in greeting even as he kept Thranduil's mount close. "I found him wandering the trail as we arrived – late to the party it seems."

Without letting go of Elrond's arm, indeed using it to aid his slow-to-return composure, Thranduil moved to swing himself back up into the saddle, finally taking in the sight of the Elven victory that had occurred around him.

"You were _ever_ late, Elrond Peredhil!"

Elrond chuckled, and bowed slightly in the saddle, releasing his hold of Thranduil's arm.

"Prince Amroth," Elrond greeted the newcomer. "I see that Lorien, also, spent their arrows only when the battle was all but won."

"We cannot always be the ones," Amroth teased, reaching up to clap Thranduil on the back, though Thranduil noticed, his expression was one of concern, "to steal Greenwood's thunder."

"It is good to see you, Amroth," he managed, and Amroth nodded.

"Come, both of you," he said, "We will erect pavilions in the lee of the woodland to see to our comfort 'ere we speak of the serious affairs of Middle Earth."

Thranduil could not help but look back as he followed the others down to the side of the woodland by the Silverlode, still trying to calm his disturbed heart.

** ** **

She shivered and drew her cloak more tightly around her, even sticky and oppressive as it was, for her the world had grown cold, and waking from the nightmare, as she had, still chilled, had been more than enough to send her tiptoeing from shadow to shadow, to the stables, and then quietly leading out one of the mounts out of Ost-in-Edhil, before mounting and, in spite of the dangers in the land around Eregion, riding southwest toward Tharbad.

 _…She was held in his arms – in his thrall – and felt surrounded as though by a band of cold metal within which neither her thoughts nor desires were her own.  Light became dark, darkness was light and all around was cold, as if in death or the deepest of storms.  She looked at her hand, her right, and in it she held – as if precious – living water, air and fire – and she knew that if she surrendered, if he took from her what he wanted, everything they had fought for…_ everything _since the fall of the Dark Lord would be nothing, would_ mean _nothing!_

_Suffocated, she struggled against his embrace, escaped to the extent of her arm, toward the nine souls reaching for her in entreaty, before they too fell away, and she was caught in seven richly adorned arms – greedy for favor – who delivered her back into his waiting embrace, his waiting kiss…_

She gasped, and came awake again, lolling in the saddle as she was, dangerously close to falling. Ahead the encampment became visible; looming shapes in an indistinct landscape. A steady rain had been falling for days, but had finally given way to a languid humidity which filled the air with a soup of shadowy fog, and blanketed the hills with an oppressive silence. Hooded, cloaked, she slipped through the spaces in between, spells of concealment barely a breath away from her lips, should she need them, but she need not have troubled herself – and that in itself was troubling – for the camp was at rest, the swordsmen and archers all huddled close about small braziers, lit for light and not for warmth.

The command pavilion was not hard to locate. Larger than most – save the healers tent – banners hung limp upon crossed poles at each corner and beside the main doorway, through which she slipped, into the dim lit interior.

Not until her feet were set upon the very ground on which he stood did the sense of Thranduil reach her, flood through her with an intensity that was almost debilitating, and yet, the greater pain came from the glint of the scant lantern light reflecting from the silver ring still about the index finger of his right hand.

"These battles are a distraction," she said without preamble, pulling down her hood as all within turned to face her, and many hands flashed toward sword hilts, until Thranduil threw out his arm to stand them down. "I bring a warning… you cannot trust Annatar."

Then facing Thranduil directly she challenged, "If ever you held a shred of affection for me, you will heed me, Prince of Greenwood and Cuivienen …"

He brother's senses caught up to him then, and before she could speak another word, he grasped her arm and hauled her roughly, further into the tent, and toward the fire lit in his own grate, for a great shivering had taken her, and she felt suddenly unwell.

"Leave us!" Gil-galad commanded, and she felt Thranduil's reluctance even as he moved with the others to obey, and her relief matched the echo of his as the king added just as quickly, "Thranduil, stay."

Her brother released her then as he went toward where his effects were laid upon the low cot, and the folded blankets there. She followed him with her eyes, until an enormous sense of light and heat washed over her, and it was so unexpected, yet so welcome that her own light reached for it without realizing quite how far gone she had become; reaching for the needed – reaching for a clean, clear light to banish the lingering, invasive presence of another.  She swooned.

Her loss of awareness lasted mere seconds, and when she took breath it was of the familiar sweet, spice scent of her heart's love.  The warmth that surrounded her, the arms that held and carried her, were his. Still she struggled, unable not to.

"Celyndailiel," he whispered, "Breathe, all is well. You're safe."

His fingers at her throat unfastened the clasp on her cloak, and only when he lifted her to pull it away, did she realize how sodden it had become in the too-humid air.

Her brother settled at the other side of her, and the light weight of a warm, dry blanket settled around her, and Thranduil tucked it into place. He would not, it seemed, let go, and nor did her brother insist that he should.

"What in Eru's name were you thinking!?" Gil-galad demanded, urgently, moving away again to pour a cup of wine, which he brought to her and steadying the cup in her hand, ordered, "Drink."

She sipped from the cup, and then gulped until, as her memory of the dream returned again, she drank too deeply and began to choke. Instinct turned her toward Thranduil as Gil-galad took the cup away. She pressed her head to Thranduil's shoulder, and his hand moved up and down across her back, until her breathing calmed, and then she felt the press of his fingers beneath her chin as he tipped her face up toward his, his eyes capturing hers.

"Man agor an le?" he asked more serious than she had ever seen him, and a flush of fear stole the warmth from her again.

"Ôl," she whispered the half-truth, knowing she should speak of the evening Annatar had intruded within her apartments, but saying nothing. "Achas lín od ôl."

"What. Did he. Do!" he growled again.

"Thanduil…" Gil-galad warned softly.

She reached up, pushed at Thranduil's hand, drawing back, fighting not to tremble as she attempted to steady herself. Trying not to become angered at his protective outburst.

"I told you," she said curtly, "It was a dream, a warning in vision had me come here to my _brother_ to alert him to the dangers I fear Annatar represents."

Inwardly she winced as the flash of pain crossed Thranduil's face. He schooled it quickly, but she had seen it nonetheless, and hated herself for – in her own pain – lashing out.  She felt him withdraw, felt _cold_ without his arms around her, and as he moved to stand, reached out and caught his hand.

"Arasfain, I'm sorry," she looked up at him, her eyes revealing the truth of her emotion, naked before him. "Please… stay."

With a sigh he sat beside her once more, and she held tightly to his hand – never mind that the warmed silver that banded his index finger was as ice to her – speaking slowly even as she pieced together in her mind what her brother and Thranduil may or may not already know.

"Annatar instructs Celebrimbor and his smiths in the making of artefacts using precious metals and gemstones from the mountains. Only the purest, he insists, for they will better hold the enchantments he works _hour_ by hour to create. Rings, they are – many of them made in preparation, but now," she faltered… took a breath as she freed her hand from Thranduil's and clasped it together with her other, shaking hand as if to prevent the acquisition of such a thing. "Now their work has begun on greater projects, and they finish so quickly.  Celebrimbor made a gift of one of the rings to Durin – to Annatar's ire at first. Now though, he simply…"

She shuddered, and Thranduil's hand covered hers, his fingers tightened around hers.

"It is his _light_ , i chanar nín," she whispered, turning her head to take in Gil-galad's worried expression at her words, "It burns bright, and he seems fair."

She turned again to include Thranduil in her warning against Annatar. His expression was of worry, but beneath it she sensed the energy of a near murderous rage, held in check by sheer force of will, as though…

_…he knows…_

…the rose gold of loving light bubbled like a spring inside of her, and she reached out to paint the gentle touch of it against Thranduil's icy soul, felt him soften beside her, and suddenly weary once more, did not resist when he reached out to draw her to him once more; rested her head against his shoulder, as she finished her warning.

"But feels foul… though great in might," with a sigh, she added, "I have never, but rarely, felt such… such… power in an Elf."

"This is as may be, nethig, but," Gil-galad picked up the hand that Thranduil had abandoned in moving to embrace her. "How does this lead you to fear these skirmishes are to distract us – to draw our gaze away from the doings in Eregion?"

She shook her head and brought her brother's hand to her heart. She could not _say_ how she knew, just that she felt it… that she knew.

"Do you suggest that he rules these Orcs?  That somehow he controls where they might attack?"

Opening her eyes, she saw Gil-galad look across her to find Thranduil's eyes.

"What?" she asked, her voice trembling as she too pulled back to look there, to find the troubles there, the expression of a haunted memory.

"No," he told her softly, "It is not for you to worry, Celynen."

"Tell me?" she insisted, "What do you know?"

"You may as well do as she asks, Thranduil," Gil-galad said, "I'd have thought you'd know by now that little that my sister wishes to know escapes her."

Thranduil sighed.

"My company, and those of Elrond and Amroth were ambushed nearby to Lorien, in the foothills below the Dimril Dale. Among the Orcs was one only recently… corrupted, and…" he paused for a moment before continuing, and she saw in the carefully banished flash of emotion that passed across his face that the encounter he spoke of had affected him deeply, no matter how dispassionately he tried to speak of it. "…And I asked of their master. Her answer was confused… speaking of a great light that was always and everywhere.  She was clearly terrified, and pled for mercy."

"And if it is Annatar of whom she tried not to speak," Gil-galad said, his face dark with worry. "Our troubles may be greater than we—"

"Did you grant it?" Celyn interrupted her brother to ask of Thranduil.

He sighed and closed his eyes, to whisper, "In the only way I could."

** ** **

"Hiro he, ad pan sui, hidh ap 'wannath."

At first, Thranduil thought that he had dreamed the soft whisper craving peace for the slain.

He had returned to his own pavilion after excusing himself from Gil-galad and Celyndailiel, wearied and emotional, feeling the weight of responsibility crushing him, _reeling_ under the knowledge that Annatar had troubled Celyndailiel, and that she had tried to conceal it from him, then chastising himself for even thinking such things as he had. Was he not promised to another?  What right had he to expect others to leave Celyndailiel be?

But then… she had not wanted his attention, did not – he could feel in the very fiber of her being the revulsion she felt at the very thought of him… and fear – and it was that which troubled him greatly, as if she knew of him – of Annatar – as _all_ the troubles in Middle Earth given form.

"Do not allow your heart to grow heavy with guilt for the things in which you have no choice but to act."

The soft voice sounded again, and this time, Thranduil opened his eyes, and came almost at once to his feet, his soft robe falling like a sigh around him, unconstrained as he was now that his armor had been removed. But his breath caught in his chest as he looked on the owner of the voice.

Celyndailiel stood in a soft, white undergown, a dark cloak fell open at her shoulders, and her hair shone, unbound around her, a halo in the darkness.

"Celyn," he gasped softly, "What are you doing here?  You cannot be here!"

In spite of his words he reached for her, even as she slipped the cloak from her shoulders and came toward him, and drew her further within yet, cupped her face gently between his palms, taking in every inch of her face, every strand of her hair, each brush of her lashes as she blinked.

"Please, Thranduil," she laid her hands against the front of his robes, her slim, gentle fingers curling around the edges of the fabric. "At first light he will send me back to Ost-in-Edhil, and I _cannot_ leave you, we cannot part without you understand."

He shook his head, to deny her.

"You cannot return there," he told her.  "Ride to Harlindon, to Elrond there… or to Lorien, if you must, seek out Amroth.  Tell him I sent you and he will—"

She pressed her fingertips to his lips, cutting off his near frantic words.

"If I do not return to Eregion, he will know that his purpose is unmasked," she said, "You _know_ this. But I promise you.  I _promise_ that he has not, nor will _ever_ touch me."

He shook his head again, for he felt the downward pressure that lasted but a second against his hands.

"And yet… you are not truthful, Celyndailiel," his voice cracked then, "Please, as you said to me before your brother, if you _ever_ felt a shred of affection for me, tell me… the truth."

"Thranduil," she whispered, all but weeping at his words, "affection? My heart… breaks to know that we will never be together, even as I understand why it must be. My soul… sundered to know eternity without you.  How could I ever, _ever_ allow—"

"Ssssh, Mîrlosen," his stomach lurched at her words, at the realization of how his accusations, rightful or otherwise, were as daggers to her heart. Better he cut out his own than hurt her with his words or deeds. "Forgive me… forgive me. I am _wretched_ , and I seek only to keep you safe."

"I know," she leaned into the palm of his hand, and he brushed his thumb across he high cheek-bone, "And would that you could, for I know he would have me for his own, but you cannot,you _cannot_ confront him, Thranduil. Promise me…"

Everything in him tensed; his very _being_ hurt, but he could not lie to her. He would not.

"I will not make a promise that I could not keep, Celyndailiel," he whispered, and leaned down to press his lips in the softness of a kiss against her brow, lingering there – breathing her in. "Know only this: I will never confront him _alone,_ but if he should touch you, if ever I should hear of it, I shall bring down the wrath of Greenwood, Cuivienen and whatever of my friends and allies would join me upon him and destroy him _utterly_."

She slipped her hands upward on his chest, winding her slender arms around his shoulders, feeling like a wren in his arms as never before. It terrified him.

"I am afraid," she whispered. "Let me stay with you; rest with you. Give me, I beg you, this one, chaste night."

"Anathathan aen uir an le," he breathed, and then lifting her into his arms, carried her to his cot and settled with her held close against his body, his arms, as his light, wrapped tightly around her.

** ** **

Footsteps behind Thranduil drew his attention from the western horizon, where many hours before, he had watched as Celyndailiel's horse, and the party of four guardsmen the king had spared that traveled with her had dwindled beyond even Elven sight.

"It is time," he as much stated as asked, as he turned to Galion.

"The king is asking for you," Galion confirmed, "Amroth and Elrond have joined us, and we turn our forces toward Hithaeglir."

He shivered.

"North," he murmured. "East…"

"My Lord?"

"So much gathering, and so few to stand against the storm." He shook his head. "Heed me, Galion, a thought disturbs my humor, and I cannot shake the fear that lies yet in me, that today may see the fall of darkness for which we are ever unprepared. I fear for our losses today."

"I pray it may not be so," Galion answered.

Thranduil took a breath, and one last look toward the western horizon across the top of his shoulder, before reaching out to clap Galion, on the shoulder.

"Come," he said, "We must not keep Ereinion waiting."

** ** **

Ahead of her small party, the path narrowed, and the light waned from the press of overhanging foliage and towering rock formations. She shivered and pulled her cloak more tightly around her, and looked back at the warriors behind her, and ahead to those in front.

They, too, were on edge. She could feel it, but there was nothing to be done. They must pass that way or face a delay of many days – days they could ill afford.

"Ride on," she ordered, even as the captain of her guard turned to advise her against such a course. "We must reach the next waypoint before nightfall."

She saw his objection on his face, but also saw he knew she was right. Even so, his hand, and the hands of his companions slipped to the hilts of their blades as they pressed onward.

It was not enough.

An overhead growl was all the warning they had before dark shapes launched themselves from rock tops, at least three to an Elven warrior, pulling them from their horses to leave them fighting for their lives.  One loyal warrior slapped the rump of her mount with the flat of his blade even as they took him down, but creatures that rose up from the ground ahead, turned their blades on the horse and cut it from beneath her, spilling her to the rocky ground beneath.

Winded, she lay, fighting to rise, rolling to her knees, pushing to her feet; stumbling to fall again, and cry out in horror as she tumbled over the corpse of one of her warriors, his eyes staring, his throat torn with a jagged line from side to side.

"There's the prize…"

A voice like gravel over rotting vegetation chilled the blood to a crawl in her veins.  She snatched a breath, and in desperation pushed away from the warrior's corpse, slipping on the blood soaked ground, until she could get her feet beneath her.

"…yes, my pretty one… run…" the voice followed her, mocking, teasing in the cruelest way.  "I Love a little bit of a chase."

She barely took a step, two, before reaching hands closed around her arms, wrapped across the top of her chest and dragged her backwards, struggling and fighting with each breath she took, until a sharp pain exploded through her shoulder, back to front, and a hot, bright spray of blood – her own – splashed against her neck and face; into her eye.

She voiced her agony, increasing as her captor kicked her legs from beneath her and snatched the blade from her flesh and dropped her to the ground, winding her hair around his fist as he followed her down, his blade now at her throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Garo i hâd! – Stand fast! [Lit: Hold place]
> 
> Garo…! - Hold…!
> 
> Maetho! – Strike! [Lit: Fight]
> 
> Artanisnya – my noble lady (Quenya)
> 
> I adar lín, u-gerich cilad – father, you have no choice.
> 
> Maethathan uireb na forvo lín – I will always fight at your side [lit: I will fight eternal at your right side]
> 
> ernil o cuilen – my prince [Lit: Prince of my life]
> 
> Meldiren – my friend
> 
> I ûr… hír… nín – mercy… my lord
> 
> Manmin herdireg – who is your master
> 
> Man agor an le? – what has he done to you?
> 
> Ôl – a dream
> 
> Achas lín od ôl – my fear is from a dream.
> 
> i chanar nín – brother [lit: my brother]
> 
> nethig – little sister
> 
> Hiro he, ad pan sui, hidh ap 'wannath – may she, and all like her, find peace in death.
> 
> Anathathan aen uir an le – I would give you eternity
> 
> The quotation at the head of this chapter is Celyndailiel's plea to Thranduil when she asks to stay with him for the night.


	22. Dúath ad Ely

Third Age of Middle Earth – 2840-2841

_Fëa nín bâd na le, hîr nín, ad calad nín tanatha bâd lín; na u-ídhrathad_

 

The news reached Legolas from the Midnight Watch that the clouds were rolling in from the south. They need not have brought him the report.  He had seen from the balcony of his apartments – unable to find rest he had taken the air, pacing back and forth, as unsettled as the night.  He had seen the gathering storm: black clouds full of fire and rain – rain like stinging ice; unseasonal. It was as though menace hovered above Greenwood, a great threat just waiting to fall.

In a sudden decisive move, he turned and strode from the balcony, through his apartment, scattering stewards who had arrived in the wake of the messenger to secure the prince's comfort, leaving the door open as he descended the steps, toward where the captains of the watches took their ease.

To a single elf, almost in unison, they came to their feet as their prince came upon them, and for once, Legolas did not stand them down as ordinarily he might – considering himself to be no more than first among equals, and not above them as no doubt his father did.

"I want the watch doubled," he ordered softly. "This storm provides the perfect cover for an assault, and I _will_ not have our people harmed."

"Yes, my lord," the captains answered, and immediately moved out to gather their patrols, all but one, an elder among the leaders of Greenwood's guard. He remained until the others had moved out of earshot before he paused as he passed Legolas, resting a light touch atop the prince's shoulder.

"You _know_ that this storm is not natural, Prince Legolas," he said, his voice low, confidential even though there was little chance of them being overheard. "A natural storm would blow in from the west, across the mountains, this rises from the south…"

"I know," Legolas agreed, "From the ancient fortress, but my father has forbidden any ingress into those areas of the forest."

"Yes, my lord, I know," the captain said, "but first the Orcs attack the very foundations of our security, and now a fell storm blows out of the south…  the warriors are nervous, Legolas. This is no coincidence, and there are rumors upon rumors as to what has brought these things to our door."

"I do not wish to hear talk of rumor, Captain," Legolas snapped. He knew full well the ones of which the captain spoke.  Whispers of his father's growing relationship with the Lady Nieniriathlim, a relationship he had – in his own way – warned his father against, and yet… had he?  A part of him, a tiny, almost frightened voice of hope, hid somewhere deep inside of him, wanted almost _desperately_ to believe some of those whispers that he had heard.

As if reading his mind, the captain pressed, "I fear you must, my prince. The arrival of Lord Glorfindel from Rivendell; your father taking counsel from the esteemed lord of Gondolin and his subsequent departure with him and the Lady—"

"I said no, Captain Faleron!" he said harshly, silencing that voice inside of himself as much as the captain of his father's guard. "My mother died in the North and awaits my father still in Mandos' Halls. What passes between my father and the Lady Nieniriathlim I do not know and cannot say, nor would I even if I knew. Enough!"

"Be iest lin," the captain said slowly, almost… hesitantly, Legolas fancied, as though he knew something more, but did not speak of it, and the six-year-old boy inside of Legolas cried out for succor.

"You think me wrong," he said, and though he tried to sound strong in his convictions, his own self-doubt set cracks within his tone, revealing his needs, his uncertainty. "Then what of all that my father has told me of my mother? All a lie – why would he lie to me?"

"I think… my lord," Captain Faleron began slowly, carefully, "that sometimes a willow will stand, where even the most deeply rooted of oaks will fall. A breeze yet blows through Lasgalen Halls, but as you see, a storm is coming, and it will blow more fiercely yet than _any_ we have seen in all our history."

The captain reached out then, and put a hand onto Legolas' shoulder, and leaning closer said, "Choose, my lord, but I do not believe I misspeak to tell you that your heart already knows the answer, it is only for your mind to accept it."

He gave a bow then, and turned, to head for the door.

"Faleron," Legolas called after him, and he stopped in the doorway, as Legolas as much stated as asked, "You were there… with my father."

Faleron looked down for a moment, as if studying the grain of the stone from which the floor was carved, before he let out a long, slow sigh, and without turning back to Legolas said, "Five Elves gave their lives for your father on that journey, Legolas. I would have been the sixth. Instead, my fate was to bring him home to the one that _was._ "

Legolas frowned, trying to wrap his mind around the riddle the captain of his father's guard had given him, and with a sound quieter than the falling leaves in an autumn breeze, Faleron turned his head to add in a whisper, "And not a moment passes that I do not _curse_ myself for that."

** ** **

Reaching out with her free hand, she tenderly plucked the leaf from its slow fall toward the grassy bank of the Bruinen river, beside which they walked, hand in hand, for the moment, in silence. In her hand, for the briefest of instants, the golden leaf became green again, before fading to its seasonal form, and she caressed it with her fingers as a mother would a child.

"I remember when last you did such a thing," Thranduil said softly, and she turned her head to smile at him, "though it were to unfold the leaf buds…"

"…upon a single small twig of a beech," she finished his sentence, "Yes."

He raised the hand he held to kiss the soft skin on the back of it, and she knew he sensed the conflict of feelings that moved like a slow tide beneath the contented glow of happiness to be reunited with him… whole again.

"It _will_ resolve, Celyndailiel," he said.

"One way or another," she agreed, with the light tremble in her voice. "But Thranduil, so much is lost. I missed… _so_ much, and he…"

"Remembers living with his mother's love," he said, his tone reassuring. "In the few short years you held each other, you gave him enough to last a thousand lifetimes."

"But it was only moments… and never enough."

"An uir, Celyn," he breathed, drawing her into his arms as he brought them to a halt at the foot of a waterfall, "An uir."

Held in his arms she looked up at him, "Did I neglect to love _you_ enough, after he came, my heart?"

"Never," he breathed, and tipped her chin on gentle fingers to kiss her softly.

She melted into the kiss, into him, becoming liquid, becoming light and slipping with him through the fabric of the world into the worlds between, where all was one and the essence of everything ebbed and flowed in harmony and beauty.

_Arasfain nín_

Her inner voice sighed into the Music of the Ainur still heard within the melody of the falling water, the voice of eternity, the promise of the world.  The kiss ended and they drifted back into Rivendell's private garden walkway, like the leaves around them falling at the season's beck and call.

"To be a part of the love you shared with our child was beauty to behold," he told her, still looking deeply into her eyes, "And never _once_ did I doubt I was a part of it. You held us both within your light in equal measure… always."

"And now, here I will remain while I allow you _both_ to travel into peril, and I the cause of it," she said, "Thranduil—"

He stopped her words with the press of another kiss to her mouth, drew back to replace his lips with the tender touch of a finger.

"You allow nothing that must not be," he said. "You know this. I would have you home, but I will not bring you there and still such peril stalks our lands so freely. You are and always have been the Heart of Light in Greenwood, only now it stands in darkness, and I will not smother you with it."

"And if I choose to stand with you…?"

He smiled then, lifted his hands to run his fingers through her unbound hair, shaking his head slowly.

"Celyndailiel," he whispered, "You _always_ stand with me, but you do not need to be at my side to do that."

"Ai, my lord," she sighed, "my light… my love…"

She stood on tiptoes to find his lips with hers, and he wrapped his arms around her, lifted her against the hard planes of his body, and then into his arms, to carry her closer to the bank of the falls, where mosses grew, soft and fragrant, an autumnal bower, in which he lay her down.

Their clothing rustled like the falling leaves around them, as piece by piece surrendered to the insistent caress of fingers, denying the separation even of the silken cloth with which they vested themselves, until the light spray from the falls lighted upon their nakedness in benediction.

His fingers traced the softness of her skin from shoulder to hip, and she gasped softly at the lingering caress of his thumb against the sweet ache her nipple became, awake to his touch, and craving the heat of his mouth around the sensitive nub, she tangled her fingers into his hair and drew his lips to meet her breast.

She flooded for him, soft and swollen with need at the apex of her thighs as his tongue and lips, his teeth, tugged and teased at her breast, their joined minds sharing sensation, kindling the greater desire, each for the other. He raised his head from her breast to find her eyes with his, and she drew him upward, eyes locked together, until their lips met and she closed hers, even as she opened to his kiss – his tongue within her mouth, tangled, sparring almost, with hers, as with insistent pressure she lay him back and rose over him, straddled his thighs, and leaned into his supportive touch, as she raised herself, but once, and sank down upon him, guiding him full inside of her, a soft cry falling from her lips as she sheathed him completely, and stilled, breath trembling in and out of them both, the only motion to keep the two of them alive.

"Ai, my queen," he whispered, "my reason… my life…"

They moved as one, she rolled her hips and he pressed slowly up and deeper within, each surrendering to the heartbeat of their love-play, slow at first, lazy and languid as their passions still acquiesced to be held in check, indulging sweet, hedonistic pleasure… yet breath soon quickened as desire built, and she lay over him, fell over him like a rushing tide, and he gathered her closer yet, still moving as she covered him, gasping with the melody of rising pleasure.

Their tenderness could not stand against the strength of their passion, as they _became_ love given form and action. His arms enfolded her as she surrounded him, turned them, until he rose above her, taking her with the full and natural abandon of a King-stag, and she his hind.

Moment upon moment they lost themselves, each unto the other, until at last, crying out in prayerful breathlessness for her, overtaken by sensation, he surrendered to her all that he was and she shattered around him, each remade in the brightness of the firmament they became.

Trembling with it still, she encircled him with her arms as he sank down upon her. For several, slowing heartbeats, felt against her breast as though they were her own, she held him, utterly spent. Her hand in his hair cradled his head against her shoulder, and she murmured softly, still breathless herself, of her devotion and love for him.

He moved then, to cover them with his discarded robes as he lay back, and she felt bereft as he left the safe haven of her body, until he gathered her close again, and the beat of his heart, and the deep rumble of his answering words surrounded her in his protection.

"Thranduil," she whispered his name, a breath against his skin, and nuzzled as he lifted the tangle of her hair from her cheek.

"Na i le sí, meleth nín," he murmured.

"For now."

"Celyn..."

She reached up to cover his lips with her still trembling fingertips.

"Istan… istan…" she leaned up then, kissed him with all the tenderness that she possessed in her entire being, unexpectedly feeling the heat of tears stinging her eyes, her voice reflecting the lingering flood of emotion as she confessed, "Dan… ídhrathan le."

They were words spoken without need, and she knew that, and it was why she so rarely spoke them, had _ever_ rarely voiced the sentiment, for she knew he understood she missed him beyond reason, even in the few short hours when royal duties had kept them parted… but she endured – _they_ endured – and were always the stronger for it, in all things and in all ways. Between them it always remained unspoken but always understood, and on the rare occasions they had – either of them – spoken of it, it was never without cause.

He eased her away, though never once let go as he sat up and brought her to sit face to face with him, her cheeks cradled in his hands, her eyes held in all the love the millennia had kept from them, and as if barely able to get the words past a dam of emotion, swollen and ready to burst said, "If ever I have given cause… given you reason to believe that is not true in me…"

He took a breath that seemed almost to be painful and made Celyndailiel reach for him, but he caught her hands, held them tightly in his own, almost painfully, and she felt his hands shake.

"Arasfain, you have not… you have n—"

"Aur uireb pen le. I amar nín, hithren, penguil," he said, and with no warning, pulled her into his arms, holding her fiercely, almost driving the breath from her lungs with the tightness of his embrace. "U-bronan pen le, Mîrlosen. Im u-echant!"

She freed her hands from his grasp, and wrapped her arms tightly around his shoulder, slipped the fingers of one hand into his hair to crush him against her; weeping with him as their weight of their painful separation descended, fully realized, in the glorious light of their tenuous reunion.

"Forgive me."

Awareness of the world around her returned slowly at his soft spoken words, and she blinked to find herself all but curled up in Thranduil's lap, the heavy fabric of his outer-robe wrapped around them both, his arms still tight around her, though without the desperation of the former embrace.

He eased her up, and with a gentle touch, used the silken corner of the robe to dry her face; self-assured once more, gentle as a sunrise, quiet as a still, deep pool.

"Always, my lord," she whispered, and tenderly cupped the left side of his face, "especially when there is nothing to forgive – for I will not forgive your love of me."

"And when that love parts us for a time?"

"Then I shall wait for your return to me, my king," she brushed her lips against his brow, and against his temple murmured, "Never more to be sundered."

As the day turned to evening, and the late autumnal breeze stiffened, in spite of the warmth of his robe around them, and his body held close to hers, she shivered, and reluctantly allowed Thranduil to assist her to dress, and she him, as they prepared to take their leave of the gardens.  She knew with the certainty of foresight that come the same time the next day, he would be gone.

They dined alone in her rooms, barely ever out of each other's arms… retiring to another evening of slow, intense passion before drifting together into reverie and the _between_ , where nothing – not even the raiment of flesh – could separate them.

The Herald of the Morning came far too soon, and almost wordlessly they rose, bathed and dressed together, dismissing the stewards and maids that came to assist them, so that they could each recall the shared moment with absolute clarity; the touch of a hand, the way he laced her gown, the way she fastened the buckles of his vambraces and pressed soft kisses to the backs of his hands as she released them, all committed to memory – for the new year did not turn until the spring, a half a year away, and _that_ was when he had said he would return.

_She stood at the balcony, wrapped half in the drapes, and in part in the soft sheet she had dragged from the bed as she rose, watching as the darkened sky grew as naked as she, devoid of all but a single star – Tercáno órëa – and then flushed with an embarrassment of joy at the coming of a new day._

_It was a joy she did not share, but she smiled nonetheless as she felt the heat of Thranduil's body at her back before he slipped his arms around her._

_"It will not be forever, my heart," he murmured as he moved her hair aside to kiss the back of her neck, and she shivered and then turned in his arms as he continued. "I_ will _drive these evils back from our borders, Celyndailiel."_

_"I know you will," she murmured, as he led her back toward the bed. "and for a time our lands, our people will be made safe."_

_He lay down and drew her to recline with him, her hair like spun silver, unbound and unbraided, covered the both of them like a soft cloak._

_"But war is coming, Thranduil," she continued, "and the red vine…"_

_"It will not touch you, my love. I will let no harm come to you," he wrapped his arms more tightly around her, drawing up the comforter again as if to make his point, and for a while they lay in silence, until she spoke again._

_"And you…" she trailed off though, for what would she ask of him – to tell her how he would keep himself safe; how he would protect Legolas? She knew his prowess as a warrior, then_ and _now. She had fought at his side, as they battled their way out of Eregion, and in the attack on Greenwood, before coming to Rivendell, she had matched him step for step, even before she had been fully returned to an awareness of herself.  It was foolish – it seemed – to ask him how he would guard himself… but as he always had, she knew he had heard her thoughts, and she felt the answer flow over her like a warm breath of summer; he would keep himself safe._

_"When will I see you again?" she asked aloud._

_For a moment he lay silent, as if deep in the midst of some occult calculation, before he answered, "I will return for the festival of the New Year, even if I must leave again afterwards, for I cannot bear to be without you for so long."_

Now, walking together, as if at court, her hand resting feather-like on the back of his hand, she went with him to the courtyard to send him safely on his way. He would travel with only two of Rivendell's guard as far as the borders of the lands Lord Elrond kept safe, thereafter making the rest of the journey alone.

Elrond was waiting for them in the courtyard, next to the horses that would carry them the week long journey back to Thranduil's lands. Together with Elrond awaited Lindir, and a small group of the household staff, together with Elrond's children, a small enough honor-guard to farewell the King.

Celyndailiel drew herself up as befit her, as-yet-unspoken station, as Queen of Greenwood, and together with Thranduil, drew to a halt beside the horses, aware that Elrond stepped forward to stand at her right shoulder – the etiquette of it was the perfection of the First Age, and spoke – silently – of many things that remained safely unsaid.

Thranduil turned to her then, and took her hands into his.  He lowered his head, a shallow, but respectful bow, and she returned the gesture in a deep, graceful curtsey, rising at his behest

"I take my leave of you, my Lady," he said formally. "Already my heart is heavy in the absence of your light."

"My spirit goes with you, my Lord," she answered, "And my light will guide your path; there is no absence."

He raised her hands to his lips and kissed the backs of them before releasing her entirely, to lay his right hand over his heart for but a moment, then gestured outward with the same hand.  She mirrored the action, and stepped back, clasping her hands before her.

"Namárië," she murmured.

"Na lû e-govaned vîn," he answered, as he too stepped back, turning his gaze to Elrond, who spoke before he could.

"All such leave-takings were ever bittersweet," Elrond said, "For in the departure is the promise of reunion, hidden like a gem in the heart."  He smiled then at Thranduil, and lowered his head in a respectful bow in recognition of his station, even though his next words were far less formal. "Be well, my friend, I shall hold you in my thoughts and look to your coming at the turning of the year."

Thranduil acknowledged the bow, inclining his head, and repeated, "At the turning of the year," his eyes then turned her way once more, though to Elrond still, he spoke, firmly and as the peel of a bell in the morning air. "Take care of Greenwood's Queen, my lord Elrond."

At the Kings words, Celyndailiel stepped forward once more, raising her right hand, even as Elrond offered his left for her to rest it upon. The members of Rivendell's household, and the stewards and maids in attendance schooled their reaction to the king's words well, but still there were murmurs of surprise, and she felt many eyes turn her way as she moved.

"As I am so charged," he assured Thranduil who – as her fingers alighted on the back of Lord Elrond's wrist – as if freed, turned and mounted his horse, gathered the reins, and without looking back, guided the stallion out of Rivendell, and, she knew, toward many dangers.

"Lady Celyndailiel?" Elrond said softly after several moments, in which, for her part, she neither moved, nor took her eyes from the dwindling shape upon the pathway out of Imladris. Only when she could not see him more did she turn, and at the head of the small procession, lead everyone inside.

** ** **

"Your guard is dropping."

Legolas put up his blade and moved around behind Tauriel, slipping his arm along hers, lifting the offending guard with which she was struggling. He knew it was a result of her injury, and that, with practice, her arm's strength would return, but he sensed her growing frustration every time he slipped the flat of his blade through her defenses, to slap at her hip and side… her back.

"Your muscles _will_ remember," he told her more quietly, "But frustration will not help them."

"I am not the only one frustrated," she challenged him, and he frowned, stepping away.  She knew him too well, and fondness aside, he was not ready to discuss the matter of his father's second's words with _anyone_ , least of all with Tauriel, whom he felt had her own reasons for bias, however valid.

"Frustrated?" he shook his head as he came to stand before her. "No."

"Troubled then," she pressed him, sheathing her sword, as if she sensed their sparring session was at an end.

"Should we not all be troubled," he asked, "with all that has been happening?"

He was trying to divert the conversation and he knew it.  What's more he knew _she_ knew that was what he was trying to do as well, and he felt guilty – guilty for not trusting her, guilty for not being prepared to entertain the idea that the whispers and rumors might contain an element of truth.

"Legolas…"

Tauriel's soft touch upon his arm startled him, the concern in her voice, the appeal in her eyes as she looked at him.  He closed his eyes and sighed.

"I cannot speak of it, Tauriel," he said quietly, "I _will_ not. I do not even wish to _think_ on it."

"But you must," she pressed softly, "Surely you can see that."

"Either way I think on it, it leaves me with an uncomfortable thought to lay to rest," he began to pace a little, speaking in spite of himself. "For either he has been lying to me through these long centuries, or he is lying now."

"Your father has—"

"Tauriel…!"

Tauriel started, at the sharp call of her name, and Legolas spun round to face the doorway, from where the voice had come.

"Ada," he said, "I did not know that you had returned."

"Indeed," Thranduil said and swept into the room to move between him and Tauriel. "And not a moment before time, it would seem – with a captain of the Greenwood Guard about to speak treason, and my own son doubting my integrity."

"My Lord, I—" Tauriel stammered, moving a step away from Legolas.

"Leave us," his father dismissed her, a flick of his hand toward the door, then he stood motionless, watching until she was out of sight before he turned again to Legolas. "See to it that she is drilled daily until her strength improves."

He knew by his father's words, harsh as they seemed, that he had overheard almost the whole of their conversation; had seen everything and had chosen not to interrupt.

"Ada—" he began not even knowing how he could begin to explain his feelings, deciding to simply speak and let his heart decide, but his father cut him off.

"You disappoint me, Legolas," he said, his voice clipped. "Despite assurances that I would explain when I was able, despite a promise to wait until that time, it seems you have made up your mind on the entire circumstance based purely on rumor and gossip."

Legolas bristled.

"It does not take rumor and gossip to see that you are fawning all over this woman," he said bitterly. "And I warned you not to dishonor my—"

"I _have_ not, nor _would_ I ever dishonor her!" Thranduil growled, stepping closer to him. "She is—"

"I _know_ what you would have me believe," Legolas raised his voice, a flush of fear quickening him to anger. "but you mask the truth of it in miraculous ideals, and Ada, the Valar know I would not see you spend eternity alone, but—"

"What know _you_ of the Valar?" Thranduil snarled, "You were not even a passing _dream_ to your mother and I when last we saw those estimable _wretches!_ "

At his father's clear enmity with the Valar, Legolas' blood stilled in his veins and his breathing stalled. He could not fathom such an attitude toward the higher powers as his father seemed to carry. It knocked his confidence, his surety that he was right to speak as he did.

"Hîr nín," he began in an uncertain voice, "they did not take her from you… and you cannot endanger our people by…" he faltered, his own doubts giving him cause to wonder if he was grossly misspeaking, but… rumors aside, would he not know his own mother? "Consider all that befell the Noldor when Finwe—"

His father rounded on him.

"Hên penidhren!" Thranduil spat angrily. "Your _mother_ was of those people, of that very _line_ that you would vilify! Finwe may have brought the wrath of division upon his house by his inconstancy, but had it not been so, your mother would not be… _You_ would not be, and it seems _you,_ not _I_ , are the one that needs reminding of our culture and our heritage."

As though to argue with that very fact, Legolas stepped closer to his father, "You name this… this… usurper as my mother come back to us, yet… _why_ reborn? Why was she not simply returned, given new raiment of flesh as Glorfindel? To be reborn is _not_ our way… and where is she?  Where have you hidden her away?"

"She remains in Imladris, with Lord Elrond."

"So that you can weave your lies," Legolas hissed, unhappy with the news. What hope had _he_ of finding his own peace with this woman that his father insisted was his mother, if she were seven full days ride from Greenwood Halls?  He frowned at his thoughts then… did he want that?

"So that she will be _safe_ ," his father ground between clenched teeth, "While we rid our lands, to our borders, of the _filth_ that stalks the woodlands."

"We?" Legolas tipped his head, a confused, pained frown upon his face, his anger at his father beginning to dissipate at the use of a single, simple pronoun.

"Yes, my son," Thranduil answered, sounding suddenly weary, "We will ride our lands together. Perhaps then you will learn what it means to be the Elf that you are."  He sighed, a sigh echoed by Legolas. "Take your rest, Legolas. We begin at dawn, and first we ride to Esgaroth, to return the miscreant that entered our realm."

Legolas opened his mouth to answer… his anger deflated, but wondering how travelling to Esgaroth could manage the Orcs and other fell creatures that were so prevalent in Greenwood; who were coming closer – becoming more dangerous, but on the last of his words, his father had already turned and walked toward the door, denying him the opportunity to question their path.

At the doorway, though, his father paused, and after an overlong silence said softly, "Legolas… she will not remain in Rivendell forever. Her separation from us was as hard upon her as upon us… listen with your heart, ionen. That is all I ask."

** ** **

The days passed slowly after he was gone, becoming a week, and then a ten-day, and with little to do, her mind turned to the many thoughts and memories that were unfolding inside of her like winter flowering plants. In the end she fell to old familiar patterns, becoming, little by little, day upon day, the Elf that she had been as memory kindled dreams, and dreams ventured beyond…

_"You must come back, my Lady," her maids insistent tugging threatened to wake the foundling she had carried from family to family, from elf to lone elf to try and find a parent: mother or father. "The hour is late and they will move us early, and you needs must take your rest."_

_"I needs must find this boy's family," she argued, and hushed him, running her finger through his hair as he murmured almost wakefully._

_"Celyn you have gone from place to place the evening long; have not eaten, even, save the few scant bites you took while feeding the waif you bear."_

_"And it is all I need." The child in her arms stirred and opened his eyes, raising his head from her shoulder to look at her, trusting, innocent and with the sleep of youth still heavy upon him. "And you, my child, where is your nana, hmm? Your ada?"_

_He shook his head and murmured, "U-istan," before hiding his head against her shoulder again, his auburn hair, mingling with the silver of her own… Dissolving…_

Dissolving…  drops of red into a quicksilver stream… blood in water, spreading like a stain… like a darkness covering the surface of a moonlit pool… a darkness that claimed her sight of the world before her and dizzy for a moment, she spiraled into vision…

_A stone step… a foot upon the stair and a flash of red… as though a blaze of living fire had just encircled her, and then pain… indescribable… it ripped through the center of her very soul as the ice of iron sundered her heart. She fell, caught in an unreachable warmth… and fading words barely reached her… a whisper already blowing away on the winds of a gathering storm… 'I trusted you. Loved you… why?'_

Why…?  Why now and with such strength?  Her visions had always troubled her, and she knew that as her new life had progressed, the young maiden she had been had stepped into the sacred pool of visions too, but there seemed an urgency to this, as once before – when she had foreseen Thranduil's passing in the North…

_The North… like a ghostly procession of images projected upon a screen of shifting fog and failing daylight…  dragon, and fire… a high tower and a shivering, mortally wounded Elf… and an ache, visceral – deep and biting. A surrender._

_The mist wound around her feet as she moved, curled away from her as if her vitality and life were repelling it. She moved without a sound, even though her bare feet stirred the leaves beneath her, to the white deer that lay, twitching and struggling as though in a trap. Vines tangled around her, and she moved to try and pull them free._

_The moment she touched the vines a flash of heat and light engulfed her, and she found she lay struggling on the cold of the forest floor. Around her vines moved and slithered, snakelike, tightening the more she struggled – and then she saw it. Thicker than the other, and red… like blood, or the light at sunset, or at the dawning of a day fraught with danger… it came toward her, full of dreadful menace, hissing a warning among the leaves…_

"My queen." It was the warmth of the Eldar streaming from him that reached her first, drawing her away from the precipice of vision, and she blinked, and found the natural warmth of his hands closed supportively around her arms as if to support her. "Your maids sent for me."

Coming more fully to herself, she swallowed to find her voice and then said softly, "Elrond please… what happened to the days of Lindon where a simply 'Celyn' would suffice… it is as a friend I would speak with you, not as a noble or—"

"You are the last of the line of Noldor High—"

"Not the last," she argued softly as he released her from his gently supportive hold. "Not any more."

As always, though, Elrond was quick with a truthful answer, voicing what she had known since the moment she had seen him – grown now -  through eyes that were not yet her own.

"You know as well as I, my lady, that he will never take that position, any more than his father even acknowledges _his_ calling to it. No… one day your son will leave Middle Earth, and those of us that remain will face what is coming in the remaining ages of this world."

"You, too, will be gone by then, my friend… safely to Aman to be reunited with your beloved Celebrían," she reached out and squeezed his hand in hers, moving away to find a seat, to run a suddenly tired hand over her face. "How I wish that she were here."

"No more so than I," he said, and at once she regretted her outburst.

"Forgive me, my friend…  I spoke without sensitivity."

"Nothing to forgive, Celyn," he said, and smiling, though with deep concern so obvious in the midnight blue of his eyes, he added, "So tell me, what caused your maids to panic and come running to find me? What happened?"

"A dream that I have… a dream and visions of a worry for safety, now that it might be revealed – my coming, I mean."

"Rivendell will always keep you safe, my lady," he said

"I will not remain in Imladris forever, Elrond. There _will_ be a time when Greenwood will need me, and I Her, and then what… when all of Middle Earth comes to know that Thranduil's Queen is come again?" As she spoke the words, she knew them to be true, and felt… strangely afraid of that time to come, though she knew it would bring her joy.  On the heels of such a thought, the memory of the Orcs within Greenwood Halls was even more jarring than it would have been.  "Already there has been one attempt on my life, or perhaps worse – to remove me from his side once more."

"Nothing, Celyn, could remove you from his side unless by his consent," Elrond said.

"Yet here I am, and his consent is only because he fears what would befall were I to stay in Greenwood," she countered.

"Tell me of your dream, Queen Celyndailiel," he spoke formally, and she knew it was as the Lord of Imladris that he asked and not as her friend.

"Red," she told him.  "It is always red… and there are always gems or jewels… or as this last vision, beads or splashes of blood or tears."  She looked up at him from her hands where she had unconsciously been gazing, "I… fear betrayal, Elrond… the only words I could understand… _'Esteliannen le… Melant le… Am man?'_ he said, I—"

"The rest of the vision, Celyn," Elrond reached forward and grasped her hands, all pretense of formality gone, and if it were possible she would have said the color left his face. "What was it?"

He gripped her hands so tightly she could no longer feel the flow of blood to her fingers.

"Elrond," she pulled against his hold but it was unbreakable, "Please I…  there was little else… a flash of red, and then pain… as if some blade tore my soul asunder…"

He released her then, murmuring for forgiveness, and looking on the one hand quite relieved and on the other…

"I too have seen this," he told her, rising shakily to his feet – so unsteady as she had never seen him before, and this… frightened her. "I believed that in bringing you here, such an event might be thwarted."

"It may yet," she said, her voice small, and closed her eyes against the sound of the glass decanter clinking on the drinking cup. "If fate allows me to remain… long enough, and I can bear to be parted from Thranduil for that time."

** ** **

He sat high atop his warhorse, fully armored, crown of golden leaves – his autumnal crown – atop his head, looking down upon the officials gathered in welcoming him.  Accompanied by Legolas, and surrounded by the Elves of their personal guards, he supposed they must have presented quite the intimidating sight.

That impression was only strengthened when the Master of Esgaroth finally arrived.  He was a small man, wiry, with the look of shrewd intelligence behind the light in his eyes; shrewd? Perhaps even cruel, Thranduil could not be certain, for the man did not meet his gaze for more than a second, before he began to speak.

"Majesty," he said, and gave a low bow. "You honor the Long Lake with your presence, and I am most gratified and blessed to receive you, and bid you most welcome."

"I did not come here to offer benediction," Thranduil said, his voice clipped. "Rather, to return something misplaced."

He glanced aside to Legolas, and his son gave a wordless gesture, at which two elves of the Prince's Guard dragged forth the struggling prisoner, and cast him to the ground between the Elves and the men of Laketown.

"An instrument of your governance, perhaps," Thranduil concluded.

Released by the Elves, the Laketown spy – or whatever was his purpose – fell to his knees and began almost to plead and gibber without control alternately to the Master of Esgaroth, and then back toward the Elves. Thranduil tuned out his incessant pleas for clemency, for he had heard them a thousand times, and never any answers had he given to the questions he was asked.

"An object of my—" the Master of Esgaroth began, also ignoring the kneeling miscreant, but cutting himself off before he could repeat the full sentence the king had uttered, as though understanding had fallen upon him like a bolder fired from a trebuchet.

"My lord," he began again, stepping forward toward Thranduil's off side, and reached up as though to grasp the horse's bridle. The guard at the king's side angled his long bladed pike to prevent the man's touch, though he need not have. "I can assure you I know nothing of this man's—"

"Spare me," Thranduil's tone mixed boredom and warning, "Your protest do little but remind me that my people possess no small skill in boatmanship, and that the Celduin flows from waters that first ran through Elvish Lands."

"The River Running, my Lord," argued Esgaroth's elected leader, all deference and obsequiousness dropped, "flows out from the Long Lake."

"Ah, now we come to it," Thranduil all but purred, an amused smirk gracing his face for the span of several heartbeats, becoming a viper smile a moment later as he added, in a voice he knew would carry, "Our trade agreement has so far been convenient, and mutually beneficial, however Greenwood has no intention of supporting treachery, and I no patience to mitigate betrayal, and if, as you were about to attest, this man was not sent by you then you have traitors in your midst.  You would do well to look to discovering and punishing those who would disrupt the peace between our two peoples. Rest assured, if you do not and something of this ilk happens again – I _will_."

"A…and you would be quite within your rights," the Master of Esgaroth stammered, and Thranduil did not miss the glance he made towards his former prisoner. "The defense of your realm is of course your business."

"As is the security of Esgaroth yours," Thranduil answered, then dropping the placid expression sitting upon his face, replaced it with one of warning, as was his tone as he added, "Do not make it _mine_ by reason of our association."

"O…of course," the man continued to stammer it seemed, when pressure was brought to bear. "Sire… a…and be assured that I will get to the bottom of this man's intent… and any associates that he has."

Thranduil tilted his head then, almost as dismissively amiable as the words he next spoke, "Then I shall leave the matter in your capable hands."

At that he began to turn his stallion's head, more than ready to leave the squalor of Esgaroth behind.

"Will you not stay, my Lord," the Master called out as he turned.

"Your offer of hospitality is most gracious," he answered, though he did not pause in his turn. "However, there are matters to which I must attend that hasten my return to Greenwood."

"I understand."

Thranduil was certain he heard relief in the tone of the man of the Lake, and could not help the amusement that rose in him at the etiquette of politics.  The Master of Esgaroth no more wanted him to stay than he himself wanted to.

"Another time then," The Master said, and this time Thranduil paused, and turned his head across his shoulder to meet the gaze of the man.

"Ir i dorthant Esgaroth na adanath fael," he answered, for Legolas' sake, suspecting that the Master of the town would have little enough Elvish to understand. Then switching seamlessly to Westron, he added, "Another time."

As they moved out of earshot, Legolas murmured softly, "You believe he is responsible for the prisoner's actions. That is why you had us come here, to discover the truth."

It was a statement, not a question, and Thranduil smiled at his son.

"If not responsible, then certainly he knows more than he has spoken, or protects the one that is behind whatever scheme they were attempting," he answered. "Though… I do not believe it to have been connected with the Orcish assault against our halls."

"Truly from the south then?" Legolas asked, and Thranduil drew breath. The fortress in the south of Greenwood, once the site of his father's capital, now overrun with a ceaseless, sleepless menace. It was a personal affront, and yet was one that he had been unable to address – save to draw his people northward and away to greater safety – but now that safety was threatened, and what he didn't want to admit – could not admit – was that he was uncertain that anything could truly be done about that threat.

_…not without your queen…_

The breeze blowing through the denuding branches whispered the answer as they passed once more beneath the sheltering beech of Greenwood, the trees themselves second guessing his decision to send Celyn away to safety in Rivendell.

"Truly from the south," he echoed his son's words. "Legolas—"

He stopped himself, and felt Legolas' gaze turn his way even before, after the long silence that followed, his son prompted, "Ada?"

"Your mother," he began slowly, "You must understand… I love her, and have loved her since my own youth, she is as the rising of the stars to me, and I have lived these long years in darkness without her,"

"I have never questioned that, Ada, I—"

Even as emotionally raw as he was in that moment, perhaps because of it, Thranduil felt the sense of _wrongness_ in the forest, and held up a hand – and every single member of the Elven party fell still, and silent as a snow-covered copse.

_"—do you expect? For days we've search every way he might have gone and nothing… not even a sign."_

The distant voice was growing louder, along with the careless, heavy tramp of boots, and the discordant jangle of the metal rings against leather – the unmistakable sounds of armor.

"Tirio," Thranduil breathed, and to an Elf, each member of the Royal Guard melted into the forest, into the trees, releasing their weapons from where they were stowed or sheathed, still without a sound.

_"Then we search again!"_

Still atop their horses, Thranduil and Legolas turned upon the road to face the direction from which the voices of the intruders – Dwarves by the manner of their speech – came toward them, almost on top of them now, arguing even as they came.

"Where, Dwalin? Tell me where we haven't searched and I will _gladly_ turn this small company around and—"

"Balin!"

They burst from the thicker bushes beside the Elven road on which Thranduil's company had travelled, a small company of Dwarves, ignobly dressed, their gear a haphazard mess of mismatched weapons and armor.

"Dwarves of Durin," Thranduil said aloud as they stopped in their tracks, for he recognized their names, if not their appearance. "It is far from home that you find yourselves, and trespassing, I might also mention."

The stockier, younger Dwarf growled and hefted his broad axe, several others in his party followed the same, but the elder Dwarf called out a warning against such an action.

"Dwalin…"

"Who is this _peacock_ to name us as criminals when—"

"I might have welcomed you," Thranduil said, his voice then hardening as he went on, "had I been afforded the courtesy of sovereign recognition."

"An… oversight—" the one named Balin began, but the other once more cut him off.

"There's no need of courtesy to this _Elf_!"

And Balin gesticulated and once more tried to reason with his surly companion, though Thranduil took little note of their antics between one another, instead addressing the surly Dwalin himself.

"Is there not?" he said, "Then perhaps I should have you conveyed to the halls of the Elvenking, to be incarcerated _at his pleasure_ until you _learn_ the need of it."

"You and what army!" Dwalin spat, hefting his axe higher yet.

Swifter than blinking, Legolas drew an arrow from his quiver, knocked it and drew back the string, aiming, unwaveringly at the armed Dwarf.

"I think you'll find… Dwarf… that my father _needs_ no army, but if he did, the Royal Guard would be more than sufficient to ensure his orders were followed."

"You'd best get that pointy toothpick out of my face, Elfling, or I swear—"

"Eryn Galen," Thranduil felt it way past time to end this Dwarf's charade, "anim!"

From all around, the Elven guard revealed their presence, arrows drawn, blades levelled, surrounding the Dwarves with deadly menace.

"Now," Thranduil said, "Perhaps we should begin again. For what reason are the Kin of Durin within my Woodland Realm? Speak quickly and I may decide not to have you taken to my halls and locked away until you have forgotten the sight of the sun."

Balin glared at Dwalin as if daring him to speak up, instead, petulance and rage smoldering within his eyes, Dwalin lowered his axe.

"Thranduil, your Royal Majesty," Balin began, "Forgive our trespass… it were never with ill intent that we came."

"Go on," Thranduil indulged the Dwarf, actually impressed by his eloquence and good etiquette.

"We intended only passing through, on our way Eastward, and became… confused and then lost one among our company, and have spent many days searching for him."

Thranduil considered this, watching Balin as he fell to silence after, and was utterly certain that there was much the Dwarf had not revealed… a prickling feeling of danger settling over him.

"And you did not find him," he said, a statement, not a question, even so, Balin answered it as such.

"No, my Lord, we did not."

"A pity," Thranduil answered, entirely without any, the foreboding and worry peaking instead of any sense of sympathy. "These woodlands are not to be travelled lightly, and if your companion is lost…"

He left the rest of it hanging.

"Companion…!" Dwalin finally could contain himself no more, only to be once more hushed by his far more subtle kinsman.

"…should I find him within my kingdom," Thranduil went on as if Dwalin's outburst had never occurred, " _this_ time, I will see to it that he finds his way _out_ … as I will provide a guide to your party to the woodland's edge."

"Our thanks, Thranduil-King, but we need no guide, for the Forest Road here is clear and we are near to the eastern edge of the trees, are we not?"

"Indeed," he answered, "But rest assured, _friend_ , should I find you or yours beneath my hallowed boughs again, I may not extend the same clemency against trespass the next time."

He gestured to the Royal Guard, without a word, and all of them sheathed blade and arrow alike, Legolas the last of them to stand down, and as though the gesture had also dismissed the Dwarves, Thranduil turned his mount to guide him around the small party, beginning to move deeper into the woods, and only when he was certain not to be overheard, he ordered a scout among his guard.

"Aphado hain. Hiro istad od i wanwa."

Without a sound, the scout peeled away from the party of Elves, soon becoming invisible beneath the shadows of the trees.

** ** **

"Lady Galadriel," Elrond greeted her as he hurried down the steps to welcome his unexpected guest.  She came only with a small guard of Galadhrim, without Lord Celeborn, and this did not comfort Elrond. It was seldom that his wife's mother visited alone.

"She is here then?" she asked without preamble, looking up toward one of high towers, unerringly pinpointing the room within which Greenwood's queen rested, with unnerving accuracy, as if she had seen her with ethereal eyes. "At first I had thought my feelings mistaken… misled, but I see now that they were not."

"My Lady, King Thranduil—"

"Is not here," she interrupted smoothy, beginning to walk toward the steps leading up from the courtyard of Imladris, "and I have business with his queen."

Elrond sighed, "I will ask her to come dow—"

Galadriel paused a moment and turned to Elrond. "I need no guide in Rivendell. I will find her, and we will speak, and then I will return to Lothlorien. What passes will be between us alone…"

Hours passed and the day grew long, and true to her word, when evening fell, word came to him that the Lady of Light had crossed the Bruinen out of Imladris, without even troubling herself to bid him farewell. Such was her wont, for like the light for which she was named, the Lady Galadriel came and went without the leave of any other living soul… more than anyone, he loved and hated her in equal measure… for when she came and went in such a manner, it was never with glad tidings.

With a sigh, he drew himself to his feet, and made his way slowly through the halls and then the gardens of Rivendell, and as night fell and the stars began to bring the reflected glory of the Valar down upon the graceless lands of Middle Earth, he found her, by moonlight, tending the garden that had been one of Celebrían's favorites.

For many long moments she did not speak to him, and he did not disturb her all but frantic communion with the earth, simply stood as she worked, extending what comfort of his presence over her as he could until her actions slowed, and with a soft sigh she sat back on her heels.

"When I was but an unwed maiden in Eregion, she came to me, as today – unexpected and full of mystery.  She told me then that there would be a time when what power that is mine would be given unto her, and for her to bear the renown of it." She sighed, and looked up at him, her face half veiled, half bathed in the silver of the moon and stars. "It is not that I care for the renown, simply that now I am no longer an untried child, I question the wisdom of such a thing… and I doubt the right of it."

"If something feels ill," he said softly, "it generally will prove to be so."

"I see so much, Elrond," she answered, "And make sense of so very little."

He chuckled wryly.

"Such is the curse of all who see, my Lady."

She too, laughed, and her laughter became tears, and then a wince of pain that drew him to her side at once, kneeling on the ground beside her as she pressed her hand to the front of her shoulder, on the left hand side.

"She lives yet," the words came from her as a sob.  "And he has seen the horror she has become. I bound our fates when I gave her life from my own light.  You _knew_ , and yet you said nothing. _Nothing…_ why?"

He shook his head, the words of the healing spell falling repeatedly from his lips over and over until he felt her relax in his arms; lean against him and cling to his robes.

"Oropher bound your fates when he tried to keep him from you," he answered her.

"And now I… must travel east, to cut the ties that bind our lights, or else I shall lose him."

"Nothing is certain, Celyndailiel," he said.

"Some things are certain," she countered, and at her words, a shiver of awakening awareness descended over him like the waters of the Bruinen falls, and he felt a life slip through his fingers, even as he tried to save it. He knew he would hear those very same words again in the moments before it came to pass.

He shook his head, knowing also that if she left Rivendell on that eastward journey, she would never return.

"There is another way," he whispered, all but lifting her to her feet. "For now though, my queen, you must rest." Adding dryly a moment later, "There has been quite enough excitement for one day."

** ** **

The 'excitement' slowly faded, as did the phantom pain she felt in her shoulder, as the season of fall gave way to winter, and thick snow blanketed the ground. Memories of Galadriel's visit and the nightmares it had awakened in her faded to vague, lingering awareness of panicked awakenings, soothed by Elrond who seemed never to be far away.

Midwinter came and passed, and brought with it the new Coronari and lengthening light. The snow began to melt, and Rhîw became Echuir, the season of stirring, and Celyndailiel could finally return to the freedom of the gardens from the perpetual silent dusk of the Library.

Under her touch, Celebrían's abandoned garden began to show the first blush of returning life, hesitant and fragile – but life none the less, and in the late afternoons, as the temperatures began to fall toward evening she would return indoors, to the care and conversation of her maids, and to careful avoidance of the visions that still came when least she expected them.

As the end of Echuir approached, worry of them was replaced by a kind of bubbling anticipation, a breathlessness born of the knowledge of the coming of the year's end – and with it, her hope for the fulfilment of his promise.

Every day she would spend at least part of the daylight hours standing on the balcony from which she could see the processional way that led into Rivendell from the end of the hidden pathway, and each day she would turn away battling disappointment and growing worry that he had not yet returned, the closer and closer it came to Mettarë.

It was not a gentle passing that the old year gave.

The winds rose, and clouds gathered bringing rain the sound of which drowned out even the background melody of the rushing Bruinen, and whispers of omens and ill fates walked the halls that would soon be darkened with the Passing of the Light at the threshold of Mettarë and Yestarë with the coming dusk – when every light in Rivendell would be extinguished save for a single ember from the Hearth-fire that would be used to rekindle the light of life for the loa, the New Year.

As a guest of honor, Celyndailiel joined together with the family in the Hall of Fire.

As they watched, one by one, the twinkling lights of the Last Homely House East of the Sea dwindled, flickered… and died. Celyndailiel shivered.

It looked and felt to her as though a wave of darkness drew nearer, and nearer yet – and with its coming, she had to fight harder and harder to remain grounded in the present, and not slip into the world between, where memory and dream, past and futures mixed and mingled… and a growing chill that stalked her nightly awaited her there…

_It began as memory… He stood close – too close, ringed with fire – dark fire – terrible as the fiercest storm, and it blew through her as he leaned toward her. The raw, untamed energies of him covered her, whirled around her leaving her breathless, dizzy; a yearning beginning deep in the seat of her being. "You will welcome me to cover you; open your fëa, that has been so cruelly betrayed… to me."_

_Becoming nightmare… Foul as fair – a burning touch – pain as pleasure at the pass of night as it covered her, eclipsed her light, sent his fëa too close and barely kept at bay by the pure, untainted bond that guarded her, settled round her, absent from her, distant, a yearning that remained the truth of her._

_Becoming vision…  Raven hair, blue on black hanging matted filthy, pale flesh, rotting teeth, the snarling creature alternately whimpering and snarling in rage… "Would have been mine, should have been—"_

"Îdh… thuio… im sí."

The words were breathed over her, and into her, to the depth of her soul as one by one the lights of the Hall of Fire were also extinguished, but it was not – as so many time before – the deep sound of Elrond's healing voice that pulled her from the brink of terror.

"Thranduil!" she gasped softly, and would have turned except that the arms he slipped around her drew her close into the warmth of his body as he wrapped her in the travelling cloak he still wore, and the overshadowing blue-white starlight of his fëa, which none could extinguish, enfolded her. Elrohir plucked the last glowing ember from the hearth that his twin otherwise extinguished, and dropped the glowing – precious – coal into a ceremonial bowl, held by his sister, who brought it to their father.

"The light of the old year has passed into darkness. Let us welcome in the new."

Thranduil tightened his arms around Celyndailiel and she covered his hands with her own, holding to him tightly as though she believed he would vanish were she to let go of him. Wrapped up in each other, poised on the threshold of greeting, they stood reverent and silent; watched as the hearth was laid with fresh kindling and firewood, and as Elrond approached to set the glowing ember back into the heart of the new laid fire.

Heat and light at once returned to the darkened hall, and from out the shadows, Rivendell's complement of steward and maids stepped, each carrying a fresh taper with which they would once again light the many lamps and lanterns throughout the House.

The returning light empowered Celyndailiel to movement, and she turned in Thranduil's arms, to acknowledge his presence publicly – the gesture was automatic, like a trained response though inside her every sense and emotion was churning with the need to simply throw herself into his arms. He took her hand onto his, and with a simple turn that slipped his cloak from around her shoulders, brought her to his side.

The simple ceremony over, and – the still-rational part of Celyndailiel's mind reasoned – before too many had noted the presence of the king, Elrond returned to them, a deep concern written upon his ageless face.

"My Lord, Thranduil," he said by way of greeting, "Forgive my lack of vigilance. It is well that you arrived when you did."

Thranduil shook his head and said softly, "Well enough, though I was a moment or two late for my lady's comfort."

Celyndailiel shook her head and turned her face to take in Elrond as she spoke.

"Neither of you were in error," she said, "For you came, my love, as you promised, and you, my Lord, Elrond, have been as a touchstone against the disturbances of memory and vision."

"Not here," Elrond said earnestly, and stepped forward to place a hand upon each of their shoulders. "Come, let us move aside while these halls are set for celebration… the gallery will be quiet at this time of the evening, and there we can speak."

** ** **

To lay a moment to rest in order to come into true synchrony with the tides of the year had never been as difficult to Thranduil as the moment when he and Celyndailiel crested the stair to the gallery that overlooked the Hall of Fire to one side, and the darkened gardens at the opposite end.

As light had returned to the Hall below, Thranduil had stepped apart from his embrace with his wife to take her hand in a courtly hold as befit their station, demonstrative of their loving connection in a way that was retrained and formal, even as Elrond laid his hands upon their shoulders to lead them to the privacy they now shared, and as he did – and not-so-subtly gave them space and time to themselves – as they reached the top of the stairs Celyndailiel all but threw herself against him, holding tightly to him as though six _years_ had passed and not six months since last she beheld his face, and no sound came as she breathed his name over and over again.

She was trembling, and as always, never able to bear her distress, he wrapped her in his arms and the warmth of his cloak just as tightly as _she_ held _him._

"Celyndailiel, my beloved," he murmured against her hair, "be at peace, find ease… whatever dreams and visions have troubled you, they cannot trouble you now. Im sí an le."

Behind the words, beneath the love, a deep, protective anger burned hot that time, the Valar, and all that had occurred had touched his beloved queen with such fear as she now showed, but like a fire banked for the night, he kept it smoldering beneath a blanket of moist and fertile earth – the landscape of their love.

He touched her fëa with his, and little by little she began to calm, though she did not let go of him, nor he of her even as she relaxed against him, save to run his fingers up into her hair to cradle her head against his chest until she lifted her cheek from contact with him.

They moved as one. As she looked up at him, so he looked down, and his eyes met hers in the instant before he kissed her softly, deeply, drawing away to wordlessly share a breath of reunion with her, as if to wash away the last six months of their separation.

"What visions are these that have so shaken you, beloved?" he asked softly. "What memories?"

She shook her head, and he frowned.  She had never before denied him knowledge of anything that she had seen, not even those of the events that led to his near passing, and her death.

"I cannot," she all but whispered, pulling away.

"Celyn—" he began, filling his voice with all the disappointment that had just flared in him in the moments before – disappointment and greater worry, but Elrond interrupted, reminding him of his presence.

"Some things are better left unspoken, my friend," he said.

Thranduil rounded on him, his control in lapse.

"Not between two souls so joined as mine and my queen's!" he snapped, "Not between two halves of the same fëa! There are _no_ secrets we have kept – ever."

"Are there not?" Elrond asked pointedly, and fixed him with an almost baleful stare, and he knew in that moment that Celyndailiel had understood Elrond's challenge, even before she spoke again, fear and doubt in her voice.

"Thranduil?" she said.

He shook his head, and said, "Only a wound that has never healed, and I have not purposely kept it from you – only had no chance yet to bring it to light between us. In time I will. But please… tell me what troubles you."

"Remembrances of my time in Eregion, and of Annatar," she said, and he stepped toward her, catching her hand as she troubled him in stepping back, and though she seemed to have resisted him in that moment, she clung to his hand. Confusion warred with fear and anger, none of which he allowed expression… simple eased her closer, as he might a frightened doe, as she breathed, "It is the past."

"And I asked you then," he said, managing somehow to mitigate his emotions and speak with her gently, tenderly, "to tell me what he did to you… and you denied anything but a dream."

"It _was_ a dream, a terrible nightmare conjured by him and forced upon my waking mind," she answered honestly this time. "It was not what he _did_ but what he _wanted_ that returns to haunt me now."

"And he wanted…?"

"To be in your place," she said, barely audible.

"Ai, Celynen," he whispered, and wrapped her once again in his arms and this time she came willingly, and held to him tightly. "Awarthannen le atharlegor, ad na aderthad u-maer?"

"No, my love," she told him, pulling back to look up at him, and he saw pain in her expression.

"Yes," he said, and shook his head, "Celyndailiel, hear me – at first I believed that we should not speak of your return, for fear of what might come to pass, and still we – _you_ – were attacked in our own home, in the very _heart_ of safety. Yestarë should be a day of celebration; recognition of new beginnings and the return of new life. Let _this_ day prove as that for us, and for those here at least – and serve notice to whatever Shadow it is that stalks the realms of Middle Earth that it _will_ be vanquished. That our light will prevail!"

"What…?" she began, frowning at him in confusion, and hope and fear… all of which he saw in her eyes, a commingled knot of doubt.

"Renew, with me, our vows, wear your wedding band once more, and be as you _are_ , Rîs Celeb o Eryn Galen."

"Thranduil," Elrond stepped forward again, his tone one of warning, "Is that wise? You—"

"You said _yourself_ , Elrond, that we are and always were stronger together," he argued. "Middle Earth – the Elven peoples of Middle Earth – need that strength now, and more than ever with what is coming.  That we remain, even this small step apart denies that; _denies_ us," he said, urgent – earnest.

"Even so," Elrond began, but was interrupted by a voice from out the shadows.

"Thranduil is right, Lord Elrond," the scuffle of a boot revealed Glorfindel, who greeted Thranduil and the queen both with a low respectful bow. "For the Lady Celyndailiel to remain hidden and anonymous threatens greater danger than for her to walk abroad, in her rightful place in the Middle Earth."

Thranduil swallowed then as Glorfindel appeared somehow to speak with the weight of powers far beyond his own as he addressed each of them, one by one.

"Lady Celyndailiel, I speak as one who has shared, at least in part, some common ground with you upon the journey of my fëa," he said to Celyndailiel. "You know, as well as I, that those of us returned to life on Middle Earth are few enough to count upon the fingers of a single hand, and that none of us return from Vairë's embrace unchanged, or without purpose. _You_ … she gave you a new life, and not just a body renewed as mine, and I believe you are coming to understand the reason for that. But you cannot _be_ her voice, her handmaiden without that you reclaim your own power within the Middle Earth."

None in the gallery breathed loud enough to interrupt what seemed to Thranduil to be the voice of prophesy itself, as Glorfindel turned his gaze, and his words toward the king.

"Thranduil, once it came to you upon the wind, as you hung in peril of passing from the world, to watch for the Hand of the Valar… several times, they have dogged your path in this world and you have found anger and resentment at the coming and going of their tides and at the mention of their names. This, now, is a chance for peace – though ever you will strive and you will be among the last of us, becoming a part of this Middle Earth when all else have forsaken it… and in that you will not diminish as most, but will _endure_ , but you will not do it alone… you _cannot._ "

He turned then to Elrond, in whom Thranduil sensed a kind of recognition pass between the Lord of Imladris and the Lord of Gondolin, one that transcended the moment and spoke of much unfinished to be spoken between them, as Glorfindel simply instructed, "And you, Elrond, I charge as witness for all of Middle Earth, as I shall witness for the powers beyond. You it will be shall present King and Queen, united, to The People."

Thranduil shivered, as whatever power had spoken through Glorfindel departed, to leave behind a friend, standing beside them, craving their forgiveness, yet at the same time – so obviously in full awareness of his own words – standing tall, supportive and true of heart, and of the humility of his own role in the future of Middle Earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be iest lin – as you wish
> 
> Na i le sí – here with you
> 
> meleth nín – my love
> 
> Istan – I know
> 
> Dan… ídhrathan le – but… I will miss you [Lit: I will long for you]
> 
> Aur uireb pen le – Without you, days are eternal
> 
> I amar nín, hithren, penguil – My world is gray, lifeless
> 
> U-bronan pen le, Mîrlosen – I cannot survive without you, my shining jewel
> 
> Im u-echant – I am nothing [lit: I am unmade]
> 
> Namárië – farewell
> 
> Hîr nín – my lord
> 
> Hên penidhren – foolish child!
> 
> Ionen – my son
> 
> U-istan – I don't know
> 
> Esteliannen le – I trusted you
> 
> Melant le – loved you
> 
> Am man? – Why? [lit: for what?]
> 
> Ir i dorthant Esgaroth na adanath fael – When Esgaroth is ruled by honest men
> 
> Tirio – Guard
> 
> Aphado hain. Hiro istad od i wanwa – Follow them. Find out who is lost
> 
> Rhîw – winter
> 
> Echuir – stirring
> 
> Mettarë – the last day of the year [Lit: End day]
> 
> Yestarë – the first day of the year [Lit: beginning-day]
> 
> Loa – time of growth, of the year
> 
> Îdh – Peace
> 
> Thuio - breathe
> 
> im sí – I am here
> 
> Im sí an le – I am here with you
> 
> Awarthannen le atharlegor, ad na aderthad u-maer? – Have I left you too soon, and with no proper reunion?
> 
> The quotation at the head of the chapter is the translation of the words of parting spoken by Celyndailiel to Thranduil as he prepares to leave Rivendell.


	23. Toled od Auth

Second Age of Middle Earth – 1600 to 1693

 

_Nach lom od i chenid, dan eno íd damb._

The clouds in the late spring wove horsetail cotton, gray and white against the strengthening blue of the sky, darting like birds across the sun to dapple the ground with light and shade; playing tag like children. Her fingers mimicked nature's industry as Celyndailiel gently coaxed awakening shoots to wind around the flax twine she had tied in lengths against the supporting frame.

The comfortable murmuring of her companions, a soft babble in harmony with the nearby stream, ceased abruptly – discordant – and even before she looked away from her weaving of the green shoots, an unwelcome weight settled over Celyndailiel's awareness, disrupting her connection to the gardens around her.

Familiar, insistent, unyielding, it filled her with a fearful, awful longing that was as unwanted as inclement weather on festival days. Reluctantly she raised her gaze to look upon the owner of the shadow that had swallowed what remained of the dappled sunlight.

"Lord Annatar," she greeted him, refusing the use of a personal pronoun with a shiver at the very thought of it. "I had not expected to see you out in the gardens."

He did not answer her; did not speak for many moments – simply stared until she shifted uncomfortably, nervously, and only then broke his silence, speaking not to _her_ but to her maids.

"Leave us," he said.

For their part and, she knew, out of loyalty, the lady's maids all looked her way, expressions variously of doubt or fear –  sometimes both – upon their faces, and in defiance, lifting her chin, Celyndailiel raised a wordless hand to bid them stay.

"By all means," Annatar barely missed a beat before he spoke again, "if you wish witnesses to the promises we shall give then have them remain. Yes, perhaps it is for the best."

Manipulated, cornered into compliance with his will, Celyndailiel flicked her wrist, cursing inwardly in an attempt to counter the fear and other, darker emotions that were already rising within her. In contrast to the violence of feelings, her voice was soft when she spoke.

"Leave us," she said.

"But, my lady—"

One of the maids gave the beginnings of protest to her acquiescence, and Celyndailiel's heart moved toward mercy for the Elven woman's worry.

"It will be all right, Meriluin," she said, and with a hand to her companion's shoulder, repeated, "Leave us."

She released her maid and turned with her hands clasped before her to look upon the serious countenance of the Elf standing before her. He was undeniably handsome, but it was a pale, hard beauty of which Annatar was made; mesmerizing, and of that she was afraid.

When the last of her ladies had passed from sight, he spoke. His voice, deep and quiet, pressed her with unspoken resonances that pierced her hastily drawn defenses.

"I came to tell you," he began, moving closer. He reached for a hand, brought it to rest against his arm, and covered it with his other hand as he led her deeper within the gardens. "I must leave you… for a time."

She wanted to speak, to demand of him why it should trouble her that he would be absent when such an absence would be more than welcome, but her throat closed against the words and instead the same unwholesome sense of longing crept upon her, a lazy desire that was as stepping into a mire and allowing rancid weeds to drape around her shoulders like a cloak.

 _'A shroud,'_ her mind corrected her and with the strength of a momentary flash of anger accompanying the thought, she pulled her hand away from his arm and stopped walking. ' _It would be a shroud upon my soul to ever accept the life he wills for me.'_

He spoke again, and that tissued pall settled over her. Trembling took her as he circled behind her. The fingers of his hand brushed against the skin at the back of her neck as he swept her hair aside.

"My duties and my business draw me away," he said, "but it will not be forever, my unfurled flower, and I have a gift for you at our parting – a promise." He leaned closer, scalding at her back as he breathed his next words into the shell of her ear. "When I return, it will be to make you mine."

She remained frozen in place, in dread, as accompanying his words of promise, he lifted to the white, yet flushed, pallet of skin above the scalloped bodice of her gown, a string of alternating silver-white pearls and deep red, cut rubies, that flashed blinding in the setting sun.

_Sunset… has it already been so long?_

"Such beauty," he said, or perhaps she only dreamed he spoke aloud. "The perfect canvass upon which to paint my vision – our future."

For barely a heartbeat, the tips of his fingers skimmed across the line of her shoulders. Her body _ached_ at the touch, a terrible hot pressure, almost painful, swelled inside of her until its vile essence seeped and settled from within, and she raised a hand as though to reach for him as he circled her again.

But there remained enough of her that shrank from him, and from _herself_ in revulsion at feeling even a hint of desire for such as he – however dark, however seductive – it was wrong. _He_ was wrong, and she with him.

_"I am afraid," she whispered. "Let me stay with you; rest with you. Give me, I beg you, this one, chaste night."_

_"Anathathan aen uir an le," Thranduil breathed, and then lifting her into his arms, carried her to his cot and settled with her held close against his body, his arms, as his light, wrapped tightly around her._

The memory unlocked her, broke whatever hold Annatar had upon her, and she grasped the fading edge of her remembrance to take greater strength from it.

"No!" she growled, and pushed against Annatar as he stepped closer to encircle her with his arms. As he would have crushed her to him, her hand, raised between them, hooked beneath the chain on which the rubies and pearls were strung. She pulled.

Fine metal bit into the soft skin of her fingers, but she did not give in until she felt the hard fall of many tiny beads around her; the rattle – like hail – of the gathered gemstones against the hard earth shattered the silence and filled her mind with visions.

_Flames, great and terrible rose up around an armored figure… old… older by far than even many of her kin, once dwelling beneath a shadow darker than the deepest of nights. A great host, fury and death, a release of power so vast and so corrupting that a wasteland rose up in its wake, and many who would stand against it were lost. A great, white tree fallen into neglect, then felled and burned just as it came into its fullness once again – despair and ruin – a flaming mountain, and a darkly powerful band of energy, restricting, suffocating until—_

Celyndailiel gasped, breaking the nightmare vision, and pushed harder against the Elf still invading her personal space.

"I will have _nothing_ from you," she spat, and tugged again at the chain she had broken, heedless of the fall of blood from her hand, nor the trickle of warmth that fan down her back and from the side of her neck as she tossed the chain down to lie among the beads and baubles with which Annatar would bind her. "And neither will I yield to your desire to possess that which is not yours to even _ask_."

She drew in a shrill rush of air as, undeterred, Annatar grasped her about the throat and pulled her closer, leaning in, his face barely a hair's breadth from her own, as he whispered, "But I will have _everything_ from you… _Princess_ … and you will not yield, but _beg_ for me to take you, and through you I shall have _all_ of this Middle Earth... for it is already begun."

She could not help but whimper as he breathed in deeply against the side of her neck, his mouth taking the droplets of her blood from it, before he released her and stepped away, and it was all that she could do to remain standing.

"I will give you nothing," she said, but even to herself her voice sounded brittle with terror, filled with doubt, a doubt that was only strengthened as he turned, and as he walked away began to chuckle, deep in the back of his throat.

"Nothing!" she called after him.

"Oh, but you already have."

His answer drifted back to her on the suddenly chill wind.

** ** **

On the balcony overlooking the garden, Celebrimbor sighed, and turned away from all he had seen of the triste between the lovers that it appeared his charge and his mentor had become. He was too far away to hear their words, but close enough to see the unmistakable form of their actions, though he had not realized that their courtship had already progressed so far.

With another sigh he turned his gaze toward the velvet whereon lay the lesser, artisan rings on which he and his fellow jewel smiths had practiced their craft. Though practice pieces, they were exquisite, carefully made and woven, and a joy to behold.  In lieu of her father, he wondered, perhaps, if Celyndailiel would accept one of them to give to Annatar as her promise ring, for surely such a time must soon come, after what he had just witnessed.

Hard on the heels of that thought came another, unexpected and troubling, made greater yet as the sudden and acute wave of distress reached him. He returned swiftly to the balcony from whence he'd come inside, peering across the distance to where he had seen Celyndailiel and Annatar locked in their embrace.  Was it possible that there was truly duress?

He had heard the whispers among her maid servants, that Annatar's attentions, his advances, were unlooked for, unwelcome, but had dismissed such whispers, for Celyndailiel would surely have come to him were such the case – wouldn't she?

He could see nothing of her now, but clearer than ever he could feel the true nature of what he had witnessed, and it did nothing to ameliorate the doubts he already had, doubts that were growing stronger the longer Annatar had remained with them, the longer he worked alongside him – with him.

That thought brought him to his contemplation of the rings.

They were exquisite, works of art in their own rights without the magic with which they had been charged, each one carefully crafted to be unique and carry the beauty and strength with which they had each been forged. Two sets there were, each with a thematic cohesion of design that ran through every individual piece. Each ring was unique within its group, crafted around the motif given to each set.

Nine there were that held a functional form, yet beauty flowed through every line, each angle and curve a balance to the others. A subtle knotwork, all but invisible, bound the band and caressed the inlaid stones; semi-precious, yet imbued with powerful enchantments that Celebrimbor could feel, but not unravel their true nature.  Perhaps he had not tried hard enough.

Then the seven – only six remained in Ost-in-Edhil since his gifting of the first completed to Durin – designed as though with greater presence. The woven knotwork of the seven stood clearly as the supports to the finely, solid cut gemstones that commanded the attention of any who viewed them, and as the nine, in each was instilled magic both subtle and mighty; commanding the awareness of any sensitive to such a thing.

Celebrimbor had often wondered at the anger Annatar displayed when he learned that one of the rings had been given to the Dwarven king, it was an anger that had cooled soon enough, but it had burned hotly none-the-less, and Celebrimbor could not help but wonder at it now, in the wake of what he had seen at the window, and had felt conveyed on the breezes from the gardens below.

"Something… is not right," he said aloud, allowing himself to speak the words that he had been thinking on more than one occasion at the progression of days. He moved to the rings and allowed his fingertips to barely brush against each – his senses open – attempting to feel what has hidden, to come to _know_ the occult held within the craftsmanship. A backwash of warning anger – hatred, almost – caught him. Breath rushed from him and he stumbled back, his hand flying from the jewels, which teetered against their place upon the desk.

He caught himself on the high back of his chair before the fire, and after a moment sank into the deeply cushioned seat, staring into the fire, lost in the tangles of all he had felt, attempting to unravel all that he had seen – the triste in the gardens, the truth of the rumors, the hurtful, hateful spite behind the apparent brightness of Annatar's fëa.

Could an elf, truly, so lie?

Sunset faded to full dark, and still Celebrimbor sat, staring into the lowering fire, then embers of the fire as night gathered around him. Behind him and encircling him he heard and felt the whispers of magic. He was no stranger to such whispers, and memories kindled in him of such a time in Aman, when he was little more than a boy, before the flight of the Noldor into Middle Earth and all that had happened since – all for which he felt he must atone: the ill wrought by his family, his ancestors – his father.

And now his own?

Cocks crowed, and around him Elves stirred from their Reverie, but still, Celebrimbor sat, unmoving, lost in thought, caught in the exacting embrace of his creative Muse. Words breathed in his mind, images flashed.

Dominant. Adamant. Resistant. Blue and White and Red.

_Neledh cyrf an i Edheltoer nuin menel…_

He stood abruptly, startling the steward who had silently and in that moment entered his chamber with equal urgency to the way that, with an almost manic fervor Celebrimbor began to move around the room gathering sheaves of parchment, ink and quill, and carried them as though hoarding great treasures as his search turned to other things, just as urgent, equally as coveted, until his frantic motion was brought abruptly to a halt.

"My Lord?"

He took a trembling breath, and let it out slowly, as if a sigh, or a waking from some great nightmare.  As one confused, and yet ever careful he set down his treasures upon a nearby table and turned to face his steward, noting the lines of concern upon the other Elf's face.

"It has come to me, Brekior, that all is not well," he said, "and little is as it seems."

"The lady Ce—"

"That we welcomed strangers among us, opened our hearts to them only for our ease to be poisoned and peace threatened once again with war." He continued as though his steward had never spoken. "A war we _cannot_ win."

"My Lord, Celebrimbor," Brekior said again, and louder.

Celebrimbor blinked, stopped talking and looked in inquiry to the steward, whose face creased with deeper concern than ever.

"All is _not_ well," Brekior confirmed Celebrimbor's earlier musings. "The watch reports that Annatar left the city late last night, and this morning her maids can find no _trace_ of the Lady Celyndailiel."

Celebrimbor's frown became one of alarm as he hurriedly returned to the balcony, in vain he knew, for the hours of an entire night had passed since he had first sensed her distress.

"Comb the stables, and make a search of the entire city," his alarm grew with each moment he thought of the gentle lady Celyndailiel in the hands of the deceitful Annatar. As he spoke he returned inside and grabbed a thick outer robe in which to wrap himself.  "I will look among the quiet places that I know, where she might have taken refuge, should anything have happened."

He started for the door, then checked his steps and said, "If she cannot be found we must send word to Lord Elrond – only for his ears, mind you – of her disappearance, and ask him to come. He may have some… insight as to stones otherwise left unturned."

Brekior bowed, acknowledging the orders, and hurried away, even as Celebrimbor began to move about the court, and the gardens, in all the places he knew where Celyndailiel might have hidden, praying hard to Eru Illuvatar that this was indeed what had befallen, and not something entirely more sinister.

Hour upon hour passed, and still no sign of her arose, the outward search taking on an almost somber ritualist atmosphere as the physical mirrored the mental journey he had, the night before, made in the inner landscape of his mind.

 _What would she do?_ _What would she advise, were she here?_  

Like the king – he remembered Gil-galad had told him once that he valued her counsel above all else – he came to understand the worth and depth of Celyndailiel's wisdom, but when a further day and night had passed and still no sign of the noble Elven maiden, contemplation and search of necessity became action, and he called the household staff and stewards and maids to him.

"The Lady Celyndailiel is lost to us," he began, feeling the threat of inundation by tears in himself as the Lady Celebrían broke down in the arms of the other maids. He forced himself to continue. "Whether by her own design, or by the hands of another, I cannot say, for I do not know.  I know only that we have searched for her, and for traces or evidence of her, and have found nothing.

"For the time being we have no choice but to move on, but know that she is not abandoned. I have sent word to the Lord Elrond in Lindon, a firm friend of her family, and know that soon he will come, and if _any_ should know of another way to find her, it will be he.

"I, myself have asked and asked for guidance – tried to guess what it is that Celyndailiel might, herself, advise – and I conclude that there remains one work of great importance that I must complete, perhaps then…"

_If it is not too late_

"…we might become reunited with our beloved lady, and welcome her among us once more."

He looked toward Belkior, and in a quieter voice said, "I go now to my studios and workshops, where I must not be disturbed. If any have need, please speak to Belkior – or to Lord Elrond once he has arrived – and your needs will be addressed. I must withdraw from you now, for the Lady Celyndailiel's sake."

_…Dominant…_

_…Adamant…_

_…Resistant…_

** ** **

The thing about finding someone that so obviously did not wish to be found, Elrond mused as he quietly led his horse from the deck of the finely crafted ship that had brought him from the shores of Middle Earth, was knowing what to do when you finally did find them.

In this instance there was no real question as to the course of action he must take: convince her to return home.

It had been over a year; a year in which he had followed the trail of half revealed whispers, words spoken as though they were almost something out of myth, of the wounded healer that moved from place to place, always finding the one most desperately in need to whom she could turn her gentle attention with barely a word spoken.

"It was almost as if she were some kind of spirit," the old farmhand's daughter had told him. "Always hooded, her hands – I remember her hands – whiter than snow, almost as if they glowed with something of the stars themselves. And her voice, you could hardly hear her instructions, though you felt them, like inside your head."

It was without a doubt in Elrond's mind that she was using the healing gift of the Eldar to help the poor souls she treated, but… at what cost? What was she doing to herself?

"Move along!" the voice of the Númenórean harbor guard startled him, and his horse snorted in protest as he pulled on his bridle.

"Forgive me," he murmured, and following instructions, moved the horse and his own, somewhat reluctant, steps away from the quayside. He would have been happier had her trail led him anywhere but there.

He had never sought to set foot on the island of Númenór when his sorely missed twin still lived, and since his passing he had forbidden his heart to even look in that direction, and yet… there he was, and he knew he would nor could be in any other place.

_'Why has Celyndailiel sought refuge here'_

"Because, Lord Elrond," the voice at his elbow was soft and high, that of an adolescent girl, and he blinked as he turned in her direction, to see the maiden – carefully cloaked against the soaking, chill mist in the air – who addressed him without a hint of resentment, "his sight may not yet touch this still hallowed land."

He put back his own hood to better see the one at his side, as he said, "I seek the Lady Celyndailiel with peaceful intent.  Will you take me to her?"

"I will," she said, "but only because she has need of you, more than she would ever admit. She has need of that which she will not give herself, and yet she freely gives to others. Wounds that _will_ not heal. I fear for her."

"Show me," he ordered softly, laying a hand upon the maiden's shoulder, before following her as she silently turned, and started away.

They made the journey in relative silence, for it seemed to Elrond that she would not answer his questions, that the decision to do so was a conscious one. It seemed also to him that they journeyed first into the heart of the fair country, and then out to the westernmost spur of the island, into the shadow of a castle of sorts, and there his escort broke her silence.

"Here is the great Tower of Tar-Minastir, the Dreaming Spire," she said.

"Tiriel annûn na Aman," he answered softly.

"Na," she murmured, "And in its shadow lies our lady, but she will not venture within."

"Nor will she pass beyond these shores, to find the Blessed Isle herself, though surely she would be allowed."

Elrond turned his head as a second maiden, older than the first and yet still young enough to be considered a child among her own people, joined them, falling into step as gracefully as though she were herself of the Eldar.

"Come," she said to him, "She is waiting for you."

The first of the maidens took the lead rope of his mount from his hand while the second waited with hands folded together for him to turn and follow her.  As they rounded the crest of the hill on which the tower stood, he could see a small shelter built in its lee.

He followed her wordlessly, wondering how much Celyndailiel had spent of herself in visions and in healing.  His worry for her only increased.

The second maiden stopped beside the door and opened it for him, but then stood aside, clearly not intending to enter.  Inside the light was dim, and he could see that drapes covered the windows, shutting out the light and the air.

He took a breath and moved to cross the threshold, when the maiden closed her hand around his arm, and with soft urgency almost begged him, "Save her, Elrond, for she will not save herself."

He nodded once, and then stepped inside, plunged into the dim hopelessness that clung to the walls and drapes, as though a fear and a longing mixed within the air.

"Celyndailiel, this will not do," he growled the words as an admonition, yet one filled with the love of a friend, and even before she could answer he crossed the small shelter to grasp the drapes that shut out the light, and pulled them down, moving to do the same to the other side, throwing open the windows they covered, to let in the freshness of air against the cloying scent of sickened flesh.

"Elrond," she gasped softly and turned her head, lifting her arm to shield her eyes, but not before he had seen their once vivid color had paled, faded like the figure she had become.

Coming to her, he knelt beside her cot, felt her head against the burning fever he could _see_ consumed her, and with the other hand, gripped hers as she reached for him.

"Why, Celyn?" he demanded, "What _madness_ possessed you to so harry yourself to the gates of Everlasting Night itself!"

"How else might I _free_ myself?" she asked, and he heard despair in her voice; so unlike her. "I have nightmares, Elrond. And the worst of it is, that they are real, and not my own."

She freed her hand from his then, and pressed it, wincing as she did, to her shoulder.

"It troubles you again?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"It has never stopped," she said, "And now the poison spreads from the wound on my neck from where his gift cut me, to link with the Breath of Shadow that was in the arrow that took Válinsillúle."

Elrond sighed, and removing her hand from her shoulder, peeled aside the cotton shirt that covered where she had touched. He lifted the soiled dressings, one on the front of her shoulder, the other on the side of her neck. Both seeped her blood and their foul essence, and black lines of poison radiated out from each.

"Annatar's binding was cleverly woven into the strands of silver that made the chain on which the gems were strung," he told her. "But they have all been destroyed by the Elven Smiths at Ost-in-Edhil, Celyn. All you must do is choose to fight."

 I have not the _strength_ to fight."

"Because you have spent yourself in visions and in the healing of others," he told her rather more forcefully than he intended.

"Others in need," she argued, and in that he was relieved to detect a spark of the Celyndailiel he knew.

"Well," he said with a wry smile, ready to trap her in her own argument, and he headed to the door meaning to call for the maidens to bring him water and the pack from his horse. "You cannot help others if you allow yourself to fade."

No sooner had he opened the door than he saw the efficient maids had already brought his pack and had left a covered flagon of water beside it.  He picked up both and brought them inside, feeling Celyndailiel's eyes on him as he moved; as he built the fire and set some of the water to heat. It felt like an age, but finally she spoke again.

"Where _is_ he, Elrond?" He turned from the preparation of his herbs and regarded her with a steady gaze, wondering how much to say – for he knew she no longer spoke of Annatar.

"He has travelled eastward, and is governing in Cuivienen," he said.

Celyndailiel let out a long and trembling breath, and in a voice choked with the strength of her sorrow said, "They are married then."

"Spent in visions, you are and yet still so blind," he admonished.  He came to her then, took both her hands in his. "If he were, you would not _need_ to ask. You would know." He held her gaze fiercely for several long breaths, forcing himself not to react to the tears he saw gathering in her eyes, at last releasing her hands to return to his preparation of the herbs he would need to heal her wound and expel the poisons – the physical and those more insidious.

"He traveled east because the people of Cuivienen have need of greater tactical governance than Queen Válinsillúle's stewards and council alone can provide, and the queen herself pursues the great unrest in her realm. Thranduil will bring them the stability our kinsmen in the east need."

With his back to her, he barely heard her whispered plea for absolution.

"Forgive me," she breathed, "I fear I have fallen into shadow and despair."

He gave no answer, not until he returned to her with the medicines he had prepared and began to treat her wounds, easing her soft cries of discomfort and pain as he debrided the wounds and packed them with the healing herbs infused with the strong magics of his calling.

"When you are well enough to travel, we _must_ return to Ost-in-Edhil," he said. "But rest now – However long it takes, I will walk these shadows with you… and we _will_ prevail."

** ** **

Riding at the head of the company, Thranduil could not find words to describe the mix of emotions that clashed like winds in a thunder shower building to a storm as the cool shade of Greenwood closed over the head of the last of those that had accompanied him – followed him from Cuivienen – not quite as refugees, but close enough.

Year upon year of his governance, more and more of Válinsillúle's subjects, more of her people had come to the capital at Cuivienen, driven from their homes and refuges by the encroachment of the violent Easterlings, the invasion that even with the best of his knowledge and strategies at defense and warfare, there were barely enough Elves with experience in combat to push them back.

In the end, after more than three decades of constant fighting and skirmish at their hands, the best defense had been to gather what forces he could muster and mount an attack against the least scattered of the columns of Easterlings and hope that they conserved their leader within their midst.

It seemed to work, at least for long enough to gather the Avari non-combatants to safer grounds within the defended city – if such Cuivienen could be called – to preserve the innocents, and though it disquieted him more than he could admit to even think it, to prepare for an evacuation if such should be warranted. Barely months later, he knew it must be so.

_"My Lord, Thranduil," Master Calrion, head of the council, an ancient Elf that must have been young when Válinsillúle's mother was a child, sat straighter in his place near the head of the table. "what you propose would empty a good portion of the Province of Cuivienen and leave it—"_

_"More vulnerable yet," he interrupted, "Yes, I know."_

_He turned his gaze away from the Master Calrion to include all the advisors and stewards present at the council, "But if we do not act these Easterlings will march forth anyway, burning the forest in their path and destroying the homes and lives that such an evacuation would save."_

_Sensing dissent he held up a hand to stay the voice that would have spoken it._

_"I know, Galarintas, but you have not the forces to hold against such a tide, and as it is, to hold the city you must recall_ all _those companies out in search of Queen Valinsillule."_

_"We cannot abandon our Lady." Another on the council objected almost at once, and even as Thranduil drew breath to defend his words, Cuivienen's Master of the Blade spoke up instead._

_"You have never trusted in her strength, Losandar," he said, "But Thranduil is right. I have barely the swords and archers to defend the center court, let alone the outer city itself. I need those warriors and those skilled in woodcraft, and I need them now."_

_"Your Queen would understand," Thranduil said, nodding to The Blademaster, "And would order the same action were she here."_

_"But she is not," Calrion said, and sat forward in his chair, "Thranduil, she is out there… with her guard, fighting to secure her realm, while_ you _would have us_ empty _it."_

"Daro ad pedo od ech!"

Thranduil felt a strange kind of relief the moment before the irritation took hold, that within his father's borders, the security of the realm was addressed in all seriousness, but the relief did not last, and the irritation became the foremost, and so he threw back his hood.

"U-Istal caun lín, ad ente, adar nín u-tolthant anim; câr damen nín o Cuivienen?" he demanded, and motioned as he spoke to his banner bearers, two of them, one bearing the colors of Greenwood, the other, those of Cuivienen.

"Forgive me, Prince Thranduil," the commander of the watch stepped forward. "Our orders are to secure Greenwood's borders, they come from your father." He gave a small bow then, and added, "But hail, and welcome home. Your father asked that you be sent to him at once."

"Of course he did," Thranduil answered, and not without much sarcasm lacing his tone. He gathered up the rein of his horse again and began to guide the mount to weave its way through the assembled, bow-wielding patrol members, and as he did, ordered, "See to it that those with me are given every welcome and comfortable quarters in which to rest."

He did not attend his father right away, rather returned to his own apartment to refresh himself and clean himself up from the road. A full third of a yén had passed since he last walked the richly carpeted halls, and marble floors of his home; had been able to close his door and feel truly secure, and besides making himself properly presentable for an audience with his father, he needed those long moments to reset, and find his balance once more.

The truth of his homecoming settled on him fully as the weight of robes were laid upon his shoulders by his steward.

"His mood is sour," Galion said lightly.

"When not?" Thranduil answered dryly.

"He has received word from the King, so it is said." Galion did not even try to hide the amused tone from his voice at Thranduil's answer. "Summoning Greenwood to a Council of the Eldar."

"That would explain everything," he said, and after a moment added, "Pack lightly. In all likelihood we will have to travel swiftly."

"I have already done so," Galion said, "and will brief you upon the affairs of Lindon as we ride."

Thranduil sighed softly, and realized that over thirty solar years without his steward at his side had worn him greatly.  He turned and laid a companionable hand upon Galion's shoulder.

"I have missed your counsel," he said.

"And I have missed _you_ , my lord," Galion said. "Now allow me to counsel you one more time today. Go. Do not keep your father waiting any longer."

Thranduil chuckled, but heeded Galion's advice all the same.

** ** **

Celyndailiel kept her steps light, though her heart weighed heavy with concern. Year upon year had passed since Elrond of Linden had brought her back from Númenór, and from the threshold of Shadow, and though little by little, her health and strength had returned, the visions did not fade, and her worries for the coming of war only increased.

Both maidens who had so cared for her in Númenór, and who had accompanied her back to Middle Earth had come of age each in their twenty-fifth year as was the way of their people.  First Nîlûnarâk, and then after the passing of another five solar years, Inzilômi, who was now wed, and heavy with the coming of her first child.

They counted the years, as she did not… and told her there were forty since they came from the Isle of Númenór. Celyndailiel reckoned time by the nightmares.

"And where is it that you steal away to in the dead of night, and no candle?"

Celyndailiel started, and then released the indrawn breath slowly as Nîlû stepped from the shadows and unshuttered her lantern as she did.

"I have no need of candle, nor lantern," she said, trying to sound self-assured as she calmed herself again, "I see well by the light of the stars."

"You may, my lady," Nîlû said, linking their arms as she stepped onto the pathway with Celyndailiel, "But I am yet a woman and no Elf, so you will forgive my lantern light, I hope."

Celyndailiel shook her head.

" _I_ am going to disturb Celebrimbor in his workshop," she said softly, and pausing in her step, uncoupled her arm from Nîlû's and briefly hugging her maid – her friend – sent her, with a gentle push, a step or two toward the banquet hall, where the celebration of the ending of the old year was slowly taking shape. " _You_ are going to return the festivities and to Rishar… do not think I have not seen the way you look at him!"

"Celyndailiel!" Nîlû protested, though in the lantern light her blush was more than obvious, and then softer, and stepping closer once more, asked innocently. "And you, my Lady… I have seen the way your eyes turn eastward at the dawn. What Elf commands the longing of your heart? Is it Lord Elrond?"

Without the last question, melancholy might have descended on Celyndailiel, she knew – for she felt it rising like a river in flood as Nîlû spoke, accompanied by the clear memory of his face, that shone to her as clearly as the stars that bathed her now with light, but at the mention of Elrond, it was all she could do to keep her laughter from revealing their presence outside of the walled garden of the palace at Ost-in-Edhil.

"No," she chuckled, "That love falls not to me or _from_ me. Fond I am of Elrond, yes, far more than I could ever say, but his heart, is bound for the Lady Celebrían…"

She trailed off then, and her thoughts darkened in spite of her momentary mirth. _Their union will not be for many years, for war will keep them parted – a great war._

"My Lady?"

"No matter… except…" she took a breath, and shook her head. "I should speak not out of turn. I am certain neither would welcome rumor beginning from my lips, however true it might be. For they have not yet awakened from the sleep of denial."

"A vision you have had?"

She did not answer… could not, for in that moment the cloud that covered the bright star of Elendil moved aside and his light pierced her eyes and her mind.

 _'…ómu i tail nín dewr di nin, ad ledhol u-s_ îdh an naeg nín. Istan i henia gordh, dan baw u-savo ui i-veleth nín an le…'*

Cold hands closed about her own and held her as she faltered, and the crystal sound of glass breaking drew her back from the curve of the perfectly penned Tengwar letters… red ink on white parchment; blood upon the snow.

_…She will leave him…_

"Tolo dan i _thi_ , Celyn, hiril nín!"

"I'm all right," she whispered, and then turning a frail smile upon Nîlû, added, "Do not trouble yourself over the lingering cost of my gift. Go… find your beloved, and bid farewell to the old year in his arms. For you have toiled too long in the emptiness of mine."

Nîlû squeezed her hands, and it seemed to Celyndailiel that the young woman was about to argue, so turning as playful as she could, she freed her hands and began to chase her, for a few steps, back toward the gardens.

"Go, before I summon the watch to escort you there!" she threatened, laughing, allowing Nîlû's echoing laughter to carry her load for a breath or two, before she was left alone once more.

"Oh, Celebrían," she whispered into the night, "You did not heed my warning, did you? You _will_ not…"

She crouched to the broken lantern to carefully pick up the pieces of glass from the frame, and carried it with her along the darkened and hidden pathways toward the entrance to Celebrimbor's private laboratory.  Set aside from the workplaces of the other Elven Smiths, she knew it seemed, at first glance, unremarkable… a low building, set upon a hillside, amid an array of other buildings: store rooms and living quarters. To any who came upon it, it would appear to be a simple, hillside farm. She also knew that when you stepped inside, the unremarkable nature of the building faded in an instant, for the laboratory faced outward over an unspoiled landscape, with an unrestricted view of all the bright stars in the heavens. Every sacred star known to Elvenkind could, at some time or another, be viewed, and felt and petitioned for the song held within their light… and Celebrimbor had built the laboratory with his own fair hands for precisely that reason.

Reaching the door, she murmured the words that would release the lock and allow her inside; passed within and carefully closed the door behind her.  No sooner had it closed than she heard the sharpness of Celebrimbor's voice.

"I thought I gave instructions that I was not to be disturbed!"

"You did, my lord," she said softly, coming into the room, "but on this night of the passing away of the old year, I hoped you would forgive my trespass."

His countenance changed in an instant.

"Celyndailiel!" He turned from his work and moved to gather her to him, caressed her hair as her father might once have done, had she known him. "You did not have to come all this way.  I would have come to _you_ had you sent word."

She pulled away and shook her head.

"How are you?" he asked, "To come so unannounced, you have reason?"

She sighed.

"Must there be, for me to visit the one that has been as a father to me these years passed."

"Hardly a father if I cannot keep you safe from—"

"You could not have known." She placed a hand onto his arm, trying to reassure, but she saw in his expression that they both knew her words were not entirely the truth.

"Ah, Celyn, but I should have.  I worked with him, shared the making of rings of power with him.  I should have known the truth of his heart before it was revealed in such… unseemly ways." He voiced the unspoken weight that hung between them.

"I still…" she faltered her voice thick with emotion she did not realize she still felt. "Still, I do not fault you, Celebrimbor."

He frowned at her, and under his gaze she went on, hesitant and careful.

"Though… it is about the rings that I am come."

"What of them?"

He turned his gaze toward where they lay, the six, and the nine… upon their bed of deep velvet, in boxes inlaid with the finest of reflecting crystals. Celyndailiel followed the direction of his gaze, then walked the few steps to bring her to the boxes; allowed her hand to hover over them for the barest of moments.

_…a hand fisted in raven dark hair… a head pulled back and a sharp, visceral cry…_

Snatching back her hand she turned to face Celebrimbor.

"Destroy them," she said sharply.  "All of them. No good can come of works made by the hand of such a one as he, not even mitigated by the goodness and balance of your own."

"Celyndailiel, I _cannot_ ," he said. "Such an act would be a sin far greater than my heart could countenance, no _matter_ that I know your words have wisdom."

He crossed to her, took her hands and drew her away, toward the workbench where his _own_ works lay.

She could not deny, they were exquisite, unparalleled, and even without a hand near to them, she knew Celebrimbor had used the craft that Annatar had taught him to create works of far greater quality than those they had made together.

"He knows nothing of these," he told her. "they shall be our safeguard and our shield."

"Promise me he never will," she craved of him with more urgency than she had ever spoken to him. "And the others… promise me that if you will not destroy them, you will do all that you can to keep them from him."

"You have my word," he told her, "though… I wonder at why I would give it, but if it should come to it, I will send them to the far corners of Middle Earth and protect the knowledge of them with my very life."

She closed her eyes as a shiver passed through her, as though a sharp breeze had flown in through the open balcony to caress the room with its breath.

"Though I love you as a father," she whispered, "I will hold you to your promise."

He shook his head.

"You will have no need to," he said.

** ** **

The walls of the tower in which they kept her were black as glass at midnight, and harder than the hardest stone she had ever beheld. They fed her scraps… kept her from the light and visited her often to gloat, and to torture and to claim what they might from her… and still she held.

She refused the _gift_ of her people to slip the chains of flesh in untenable sorrow, or unbearable pain; irreparable defilement. Turned it all inward until she felt full of it – like a boil ready to burst, and yet the crushing darkness of the walls that surrounded her held her together, held it all inside, as the torture she had kept inside of herself, but that day, those very walls whispered of a new emotion, a coming power that might put an end to her suffering in ways that were worse yet than any foul Orc or wretched Easterling might try.

The walls of Barad-dûr whispered fear.

Her once lustrous hair that had shone with the blue black of a raven's wing hung limp and tangled around her shoulders, and what rags they gave to her to wear were all but threads that barely covered the filthy state of her bruised and beaten flesh, and even after… _how long has it been?_ She had lost the count of days… of weeks… of years spent in captivity, but even after all of them, Válinsillúle refused surrender. She would do anything… _everything_ in her power to ensure the downfall of the master here. Only… she, too, feared…

_…So you are the one for whom he put her aside…_

…for she heard, in her mind, the voice of the one against whom the night black walls, and those within it, trembled.

** ** **

In many ways, that his father had sent him back to court in Lindon had been a great relief to Thranduil. Oropher had offered no apology, of course; had not admitted he had been wrong to recall him from court in the first place, had simply asserted that: _"…in these increasingly unsettled times, it would behoove Greenwood to have a representative at court once more…"_ So to Lindon he had travelled, and there he had settled into the rhythm of vassal lord, free of the responsibility of stewardship that he had endured in Cuivienen.

In others ways, the four decades or more spent in such close proximity to Eregion, and knowing it was there wherein dwelled Celyndailiel– sent to study, so Gil-galad had told him – under Celebrimbor and his artisans, was the hardest test his heart had ever faced.

Not a day passed when he did not think to take his mount and make the journey to Ost-in-Edhil, even to lay eyes upon her and ensure himself of her good health if he could not speak with her. Only the news of her born to him by Elrond gave him pause. Casual, it had been, that he had mentioned his thoughts to visit to the younger Elf one evening as they sat companionably sharing an evening meal on a balcony overlooking the harbor.

_He sensed that Elrond stiffened at his words, and turned an inquisitive gaze the way of the other. Neither Gil-galad nor any other had given him cause to believe that all was anything other than well with Celyndailiel – why then should Elrond baulk at his suggestion?_

_"Elrond?" he pressed gently._

_"It… would be better, my Lord Thranduil," Elrond's answer came formally phrased, "were you not to visit with the Lady Celyndailiel. She has not been… herself."_

_He frowned, his heart constricting to a painful knot._

_"How so?" he asked, his voice a mere breath._

_When Elrond answered, Thranduil could tell that his words were carefully chosen, so as to reveal enough, and yet maintain the Lady's privacy, and though it frustrated him, he could not blame Elrond, for he had lost the right to know more personally of Celyndailiel at his betrothal to Válinsillúle._

_"Events occurred at Ost-in-Edhil that led her to leave on… a journey of service – of sorts – and her path took her to Númenór… but…" Elrond trailed off._

_"Go on," he prompted, "Please, Elrond, I have no right to know, I understand this, but you know as well as I that I did not forsake Celyn willingly, nor even entirely – I still care for her wellbeing, though I cannot be a part of it."_

_Elrond sighed._

_"She is beset by visions, Thranduil – and they drain her light and sorely test her spirit at times. She had become despondent, her fëa depleted by them, and by her work to heal the sick along the road her path took."_

_Thranduil's frown became deeper, his concern gripped him like the coils of some great snake._

_"Ereinion spoke nothing of this," he said.  "She is well now?"_

_"The king spoke nothing of it because the king does not know," Elrond said, "And you must not speak of it to him.  She is well enough – mending, slowly, and it is for that reason that I ask you not visit with her. I fear your presence would hamper her return to strength."_

_"But—"_

_"She misses_ you _also, my prince."_

And so the march of his days were split between the growing concerns of the council for the unrest in Middle Earth, and his own fears for the one he knew he would never cease to love, no matter that his fate had seemingly been written otherwise than at her side.

"It is well that your horse has eyes of his own with which to see the terrain ahead."

The familiar voice, teasing, brought him out of his bitter thoughts, and he turned his head to see the wide smile on the face of Amroth as the Prince of Lorien brought his horse alongside his own.

"We will reach the borders of Lorien before nightfall, will we not?" Thranduil asked in an effort to disprove the truth, that he had been so lost in his thoughts, and that the journey had passed him by without his full attention.

"We will." Amroth nodded, then with a partial sigh added, "Almost like old times."

"Almost?" he questioned.

"Yes… in old times we would have been permitted beneath her boughs, yet now, my father will not permit ingress into the Dreaming Wood by _any_. Not even the king and his company."

"Still?"

"More so now," Amroth said. "Nor will he travel so far from her borders that he cannot defend her with his own life's breath."

"Not entirely an unwise course," Thranduil said. "When we are so uncertain of our foe, and our allies alike."

"You speak of the Númenórean?"

"I do." He sighed. "Though we, the King included, are certain Tar-Minastir will succeed his aunt, there is none among us who can be certain of his heart, and we hear of constant dissent from others of Númenór."

"There is one." Both Amroth and Thranduil looked back as Elrond urged his horse forward to join them, three abreast on the pathway, riding at Thranduil's other side. "But to receive the benefits of _her_ knowledge in this requires matters be revealed to the king of which he was not previously aware, and would in all likelihood be… displeased to hear of now."

"You speak of Celyndailiel," Thranduil said softly, almost sorrowing, and then harsher, protectively he added, "No. If Gil-galad needs confirmation of where Minastir stands, I will visit Númenór myself. I will not have her confidences betrayed, by necessity or otherwise."

"Be iest lin," Elrond nodded respectfully to him, and Thranduil could all but _feel_ Amroth's gaze boring into the side of his head.

"I think _you_ had best tell me everything, my friend," Amroth said softly, and with regret added, "for this council meets to secure the safety of _all_ of Elvendom, and not the confidences of a single elleth, however noble her heritage."

Thranduil regarded Amroth for many long moments, and finally, with a breath, nodded.

"We will speak of it," he said, "but not upon the road. Elrond?"

Elrond hesitated a moment, as if he too were weighing the truth of Amroth's words, and the situation. Then finally he, too, nodded.

"Come, both of you, to my pavilion when we reach camp tonight. We will be undisturbed; I shall see to it." He sighed softly. "We shall decide, the three of us, what will be _our_ course of action."

** ** **

"You have hours only. You must go now!"

Celyndailiel started, and turned away from the window where she had been watching, with growing dread, the approaching forces; the fires that spreading through the landscape on the course from the north and the east toward the city; the bustle of the fearful either out into the landscape and then westward toward Lindon, or in toward the fortress itself.

"I will not abandon you to fate, I—" she broke of as the figure standing beside Celebrimbor was revealed by the throwing back of the hooded cloak he wore. "Elrond!"

"I come to fulfil a promise of three who hold you dear, Celyndailiel, and I must ask of you to reveal what you know of Minastir to your brother, even though it will tell far more than you wished for him to know."

She shivered at Elrond's words, but glancing once again toward the window moved quickly to her desk to grab parchment and quill, and pen a hasty missive to Ereinion, concerning the heart of Tar-Minastir of Númenór and the promises he had given her when she was his guest.

"Tell him what you must, Elrond," she said, blotting, folding and sealing the letter before bringing it to him and setting it into his hand. Her stomach churned, and her heart beat painfully in her chest, and she would have loved nothing more than to flee West with him to Lindon and avoid what fate she had seen, but she _would_ not leave Celebrimbor to face the coming storm alone. "But _I_ cannot leave here. Already casualties are mounting and too many are in need of healing, but I beg you, take Celebrían with you in my place. I would have her _far_ from here and though safety is only little better with my brother, I would have her take it."

He shook his head.

"Send her under guard to her mother in Lorien," he said.

"They will not _reach_ Lorien," she caught him by the sleeve and brought him out past the window onto the east-facing balcony, and pointed out. "Not an hour past, casualties from Amdir's army reached our borders. The pass through Hithaeglir is swarming with Orcs, and Moria's gates are closed to us. The rest of Amdir's forces have retreated to secure Lorien from the influx from the east that reach through Eryn Galen's defenses, or bypass them altogether coming by way of the Brown Lands.  You _must_ take her west to Lindon!"

"But you—"

"My place is here," she gripped his hands then, searching his eyes, before she said, "If my presence can but delay this Dark Lord, for a day – two – then perhaps my brother will muster what forces _he_ needs to overthrow the Shadow rising here.  As Annatar he craved my favor, let me now _use_ this to our advantage."

"Celyn," Elrond breathed. "You know as well as I…"

He trailed off as she shook her head.

"Tell Thranduil, when you see him, that I—"

"Thranduil travelled northward with Amroth and a small contingent of scouts, toward Angmar. I will not see him 'ere this comes to war, and come to war it will if we do not give him what he has demanded."

"I will not give them up," Celebrimbor interjected. "I made a promise, and—"

"We cannot surrender the rings to him, Elrond, you know this, for his purpose is one born only of great evil," Celyndailiel said. "And ever was.  He deceived us, all of us, and we here must _hold_ to pay for our ignorance."

"Innocence, Celyndailiel, not ignorance," Elrond argued.

"I _know_ what I felt from him. I should have spoken sooner; should have been more insistent to my brother; more _honest_ with my beloved. I was not, and now I have brought this upon us all."

"This is _not_ your fault," he insisted, winding his hands so tightly around hers that she winced in pain.

"Perhaps not," she agreed, "but I could have prevented it all the same. Instead I allowed myself to become lost in my despair, selfish in my pain at losing Thranduil to Cuivienen. I _should_ have acted."

They fell to silence then, each of the three watching and listening to the sights and sounds of the gathering chaos in and around Eregion, until at last Elrond spoke, softly and – Celyndailiel fancied – meant only for her ears and understanding.

"I will take her west to Lindon, it will begin a journey that I know will end yet further west, through joy, and pain and sorrow. I love her, Celyndailiel, and have from the moment I beheld the sweet silver light within her eyes."

"I know," she whispered. "Elrond, I know."

** ** **

Celebrían shivered, though Celyndailiel fastened her own thickly woven cloak around her and embraced her tightly before releasing her and pressing into her trembling hands a small pouch.

"Give this to my brother, the king."

Celebrían gasped, she should have known, but saw Celyndailiel shake her head, dismissing the question of her identity as trivial.

"Give this _only_ to my brother, and tell him they are the last great works of a repentant son of the House of Fëanor. He will know what to do."

"Please," she said, breathless with withheld tears, "Come _with_ us, I beg of you."

"That is not my fate, little one," Celyndailiel said.

"Then what is?" she demanded almost petulantly.

" U-polin pedi. I men núf nín dûr," Celyndailiel whispered. Then pressing a soft kiss to her cheek said, "Go now, and do not fear for me… though we shall not meet again."

"Celyn…" Celebrían moaned softly as Celebrimbor took her from Celyndailiel's arms and passed her up to Elrond.

"Ride swiftly," he instructed. "Stop for nothing… and for no one."

Elrond gave no answer, only closed his arms more tightly around her slender frame, and urged his mount on until she could hear nothing, and no one save the rushing of the wind.

** ** **

The night was bitter. The sounds of the river Isen by which the small but heavily defended party camped, flowed not with the hidden song of the Ainur, but with the slow, discordant drip, drip, drip of tears, spilled on stone. The flapping of the pavilion's canvass sides was the sound of owl's wings, heralding the passing of souls, and the day, when it broke was scarlet, as if the sky were filled with blood, already shed in the gathering war.

Celyndailiel arrayed herself as never before, and before she sent them away to safety, allowed her maids to dress her hair, weave in the strands of her mother's circlet the heavy red and yellow gemstones set against her brow. There were the same colors in the trim of the cloak she wore over her blue-white gown.

She unfurled the banner, so carefully rolled by her mother before she passed into the halls of Mandos: an orange quartered circle, surrounded by eight yellow rays in a geometric pattern, to form the spokes of a wheel to an outer circle, banded in orange. From this, the yellow and orange tipped spokes continued, widening – at each quarter forming the right angles of a black edged square, and in between, at the half points, the spokes flattened to the line of the square. They were the colors of the House Finarfin - her father's house – her brother's… house of the High kings of the Elves. For the first time openly she embraced her heritage, at a time of great trouble and fear.

At the outermost edges of the crosspiece that supported the banner, she tied a careful fall of thick, white ribbon – for her intent was to parlay – to attempt to avert what seemed to be the inevitable war and perhaps, if grace were on her side, she would know some measure of success, but her heart misgave her, as she felt a shadow upon the one that would carry her banner, an Elf named Voronwë, who awaited her without.

She could no longer delay, not only because to do so would fail prevent the progress of the enemy's army across the river Isen, but because any further delay would give her brother's forces time to reach her; to interfere with her attempts to broker peace.

She knew what the enemy wanted, but that was too great a price to pay.

Outside the tent, her groom – his eyes filled with tears which he insisted to her were from the morning light shining in his eyes – held her horse, a silver-gray mare, while she mounted. Behind her four likewise mounted guard came to a perfect line, and at her side marched Voronwë as they made their way to the ford.

There she stopped and shielded her eyes to better see, against the still rising sun, the army arrayed before her; Annatar's army, or by whatever name this dark lord now called himself, for he was truly not Giver of Gifts, as the name he had chosen meant.

"Dartho," she commanded softly to the elves at her back, then with a breath eased her unquiet mount forward into the susurrating waters of the river where it forded the pebbled ground.  On the opposite bank, apparently heeding the signal for the desire to parlay, four figures, one mounted, three on foot, also stepped into the water, away from the army.

Each party halted, barely a horse's length between them face to face. Celyndailiel on the western side with her banner Elf, and Annatar, a humanoid figure with a mouth twisted and cracked, and hair that hung limply about his face, and two huge Orcs upon the east.

"Lady Celyndailiel," the humanoid figure's voice was as unpleasant as the lips and tongue that uttered the words, and the eyes with which he fixed her were bloodshot and yellowed. "I speak for my lord Sauron, as his emissary. We recognize your entreaty for parlay. Make your request… but quickly.  The hour grows long."

"The hour was already late ere your lord first set foot in Lindon, Emissary," she said bitterly, looking not upon the Voice of Sauron, but upon the Dark Lord himself, still so fair in countenance that it sickened her to gaze upon what she beheld. "But I believe you mean the shadows grow long, for surely evening falls upon his folly."

"What is your business, Elf?" the emissary demanded, as though already tired of sparring with words.

"I would sue for peace," she said. Her voice falling at the end of her sentence.

"Peace is easily won, and you know it's price." The answer came at once.

"And you know that that which you would possess will never be yours."

Her breath came fast and short into her body, as she sought to control her rising fear, her self-doubt that her path was the right one to take, and to appear self-assured.

"That which my lord would possess is already his, he simply—" the emissary began but she interrupted.

"You have no more claim upon those rings than would I upon the library of a child whom I had taught to read and write."

Behind his lank figure, she heard Annatar – Sauron – chuckle; a cold sound made more chilling yet by such a sound coming from one so fair in form. Beneath her, the horse shifted, and she tightened her grip on the reins, murmured softly to calm the creature, though she felt no less agitated herself.

"You have heard my lord's terms," the emissary continued when she raised her head. "Perhaps you would share your own."

Celyndailiel's heart stalled, and her stomach flipped in place as she reached the edge of the precipice, her point of no return.

"Recall your armies, and withdraw from this place, relinquish your claim upon the rings," she began.

"You ask much," Sauron's agent interrupted, and she looked on him, for all that she was repulsed by his appearance, for she could not bear to see the light of understanding in the expression, turning feral, upon Sauron's face, even if his servant did not yet understand. "Yet offer… what?"

"Do as I have asked, and I will—"

Movement interrupted her and unnerved she broke off, looking up she watched Sauron move his mount forward, pushing aside his envoi, until he was all but level with her.

"You recall, do you not, what I said to you in the gardens of Ost-in-Edhel," he said, reaching out a hand, clothed in a riding glove, to run a touch down her cheek.  Behind her, she heard the sound of her four guards, each drawing arrows from their quivers and knocking them to the strings of their bows. She raised a hand to stay them.

Undeterred by the display, Sauron moved his horse full circle about hers, shifting the smaller mount a step or two further from the western bank, closer to his Orcish escort.

She swallowed hard, and spoke again.

"Withdraw your forces, relinquish your claim upon the rings and I shall come to you as hostage against the continued peace of our two peoples."

Turning his mount to face hers, once more in place behind his emissary and the Orcs, Sauron laughed.

"No, princess," he said as his chilling laughter faded. "That is _not_ as it shall be."

"Then we have nothing further to—"

What happened next came as a blur – a vision out of nightmare. A streak of darkness came in upon her right, where stood her banner bearer, and on her left, another. A spray of red… hot and sticky struck her right hand where she held the reins, but she did not have time to react before filthy arms reached to drag her from her mount, and framed between the horse's legs she saw Voronwë's crumpled form, and her fallen banner, sinking slowly in the shallow, bloodstained water.

She twisted in the Orc's arms, grasping the hilt of his knife, and pulling it from the sheath at its belt, then lashed out at the arms that held her.  Surprised it gave a guttural grunt of pain and released her, and she stumbled upon the rocky ground as she sought to turn, to guard herself, even with so small a weapon.

Her horse, spooked by the scent of blood, reared, striking the Orc even as it advanced upon her, then the horse turned and fled along the shallow ford until it could reach shore. By then her guards surrounded her, blades drawn, slashing at the Orcs and forcing them back, Sauron's emissary long since retreated.

A guardsman offered her his arm, and pulled her up into the saddle before him, turning at once and beginning to ride to safety, even as the others closed ranks to protect their retreat.

"There will be no peace between us, Celyndailiel," Sauron's voice rang out like thunder across the landscape. His threat like lightning that followed after. "But you _will_ surrender to me, and you _will_ beg for me to take you before the turning of another year."

* * *

 

*translated to Sindarin these words are from the song [Havens by Adele McAllister](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7QOPKZrnQYM)… the words always reminded me of something Celebrían might say or write to Elrond at her parting.

  
_'…ómu i tail nín dewr di nin, ad ledhol u-sîdh an naeg nín. Istan i henia gordh, dan baw u-savo ui i-veleth nín an le_ …' – '…though my feet give out beneath me, and parting is no solace for my pain. I know it's hard to understand, but don't you ever doubt my love for you…'

  
If you would like to listen to this or any of her other songs – many of which are Tolkien/Middle Earth related, you can find her here on [Youtube](https://www.youtube.com/user/adelemcallister), and here on [Soundcloud](https://soundcloud.com/adelemcallister).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anathathan aen uir an le – I would give you eternity
> 
> Neledh cyrf an i Edheltoer nuin menel… - Three rings for the Elven-kings under the sky…
> 
> Tiriel annûn na Aman – Gazing west unto the Undying Lands
> 
> Na – Yes [Lit: It is]
> 
> Daro ad pedo od ech! – Stand and be recognized! [Lit: Halt and speak of yourself.]
> 
> U-Istal caun lín,– Do you not recognize your prince, [Lit: Know you not your prince]
> 
> ad ente, – and furthermore,
> 
> adar nín u-tolthant anim; câr damen nín o Cuivienen? – has not my father sent for me; recalled me from Cuivienen? [Lit: Has not my father brought me; made my return from Cuivienen?]
> 
> yén – long year – equivalent to 144 solar years, though Tolkien earlier identified them to 100 solar years, and it is this definition that is used in this text.
> 
> Tolo dan i thi, Celyn, hiril nín – Return to the now, Celyn, my lady.
> 
> U-polin pedi. I men núf nín dûr – I cannot say. My road ahead is dark
> 
> Dartho - hold
> 
> The quotation at the head of the chapter is the translation of Elrond's admonishment to Celyndailiel when he finds her despairing of Thranduil and Válinsillúle's relationship. Nach lom od i chenid, dan eno íd damb. – Spent in visions, you are, and yet still so blind.


	24. i-Arandyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am taking this moment to remind readers that this fiction is a blending of book, movie and other scholarly canon in a way that best makes sense in the context of this story. This was especially difficult to juggle in the case of Thrain, and Gandalf’s participation in the White Council. The result therefore involves minor adjustments.

Third Age of Middle Earth – 2850-1

 

_I-dor ad i-arandyn nar er_

 

The seasons moved onwards, an ever-turning roll of the six-spoked wheel. Light rose and fell between solstices and equinoxes, but to Thranduil, the march of time was barely a breath: a long breath measured in repeating hail and farewells; alternating periods of life and warmth, and a barren cold existence governed by the presence or absence of his beloved Celyndailiel.

A rush of delight flushed his senses as her light laughter reached him on a breeze almost as gentle as her touch, and up ahead, her gray mare crested the hill in front of his warhorse, and she momentarily paused to turn back, and still laughing all but sang her challenge to him.

“I believe you are _letting_ me win, Arasfain,” she called. “Fine then… only if you can catch me, shall you have me.”

He barely had time to raise an eyebrow to her challenge before she had urged her mount onward, the fleet, gray mare almost leaping forward, putting distance between them.

A rare smile, and answering laughter graced him with its warmth, and leaning down to his horse, he murmured earnestly into the stallion’s ear, then gave a wordless call to the steed as he straightened in the saddle, and surged on up the hill after his prize – his beloved wife, and the blessing of her love.

“Noro sui gwaew, Colluilos!” he whispered again, lost in the beauty that was the sight of Celyndailiel riding at a full, yet playful gallop. The wind teased her shining silver hair, the sky blue cloak streamed like a banner at her back, and the harmony of the bells affixed to the mare’s tack filled the hills with their song.

“Taitë melmë antanenyes táqa.”

The words tripped, prayer-like, from his lips at the sight of her, and with sudden impatience to hold her in his arms, he put heel to horse, and urged him on. His greater size and strength soon closed ground on the more petite riding mount, bringing him within strides of Celyndailiel; matched the gray mare’s speed, beat for striking hoofbeat; drew closer.

Holding the stallion steady with the pressure of only his knees, Thranduil reached out across the narrow distance between them, wrapped a sure grasp around Celyndailiel’s waist and as if without effort, plucked her from the saddle to draw her crossways into his, safe within the circle of his arms, and she – laughing still – wrapped hers around his shoulders, nuzzling into his neck even as he began to slow the stallion beneath them, allowing the mare to run on.

“Im anthan,” she murmured softly against his skin. “Anthan an le.”

“Ad im vaban,” he whispered, before tenderly drawing her head out from the crook of his neck, and capturing her lips with his own.

The kiss was unhurried, unashamed, and full of the love they shared; lasting and abiding.

He had no fear for their safety as his attention focused fully on his beloved in his arms. He knew that – though they were some way distant – his personal guard encircled them, and he trusted them unfailingly. So it was some time before he lifted his gaze, and his lips from the one that held his soul just as safely.

When finally, their lips parted he leaned into her touch as she lifted her hand to brush at the dampness on his cheek.

“My love,” she breathed, her voice as reverent as his earlier, prayerful declaration had been. “A decade… But a breath, and yet as though millennia yet stands between us.”

“You are _safe_ here, Celynen,” he said softly, “And Shadow yet hangs over Greenwood, for all that we would cleanse Her.”

“Tell me,” she commanded quietly.

He sighed softly, but could no more deny her than he could halt the sun in Her passage across the sky. As he spoke, he turned her slightly to hold her against him, even as he eased his stallion’s head around, to begin the long, slow walk back toward the Vale of Imladris, and Lord Elrond’s house.

“The orcs continue to assault our people, though for the most part the Lasgallernrim have retreated within our halls. We have been able, now, to expand the perimeter of our patrols to keep them back, but outside of that, the woodland runs rife with the foul creatures and other… dread things.”

“Other things?” she queried softly, a worried frown coming to her face as she reached up to turn his gaze back to hers.

“Ungoliant’s spawn,” he tried to hold the distaste, but the words spat from his lips in disgust that such foul things should ever walk beneath the hallowed boughs of Greenwood the Great. “They are calling the woodland realm, ‘Taur-nu-Fuin” now.”

“Mirkwood?” she said, rendering the word in Westron, and a flash of pain rushed through his heart.

She must have seen, for she ran her touch over his face once more, and he felt the warmth of her love surround him.

“It comes up from the south, this Shadow.” His voice reflected the shame he felt at that, and frustration too. “From Amon Lanc.”

Perceptive as always, he knew, she shook her head and said quietly, “It is no reflection on your father, Thranduil, nor upon you.”

“I would _act_ , Celyndailiel,” he hissed, “except that the White Council persist in their opposition of such a course.”

“I have heard Lord Elrond speak of it,” she said. “He, too, is frustrated by their obstinacy.”

 He could not help but chuckle wryly at that.

“He is one of them,” he said as the humorless laugh faded, but Celyn shook her head.

“He is on your side, Thranduil.”

He took a breath, then nodded, trusting her wisdom, and knowing her words held truth. He had, after all, trusted Elrond with her safety.

Ashamed of his momentary doubt, he said, “He ever has been. Forgive me.”

“Nothing to forg—”

The rumble of approaching horses interrupted the intimacy of their conversation and looking ahead once more, Thranduil made out the riders. There were six of them, approaching fast. They bore the banner of Imladris.

“My Lord Thranduil,” the lead rider called out, and Thranduil identified him as Elrohir – horse lord of Rivendell. Elrohir wore a frown, accentuating the likeness he bore for his father. “Is there a problem, my Lord?”

Thranduil’s answering frown was one of confusion, which faded after a moment as he caught sight of one of his personal guard leading the gray mare that Celyndailiel had been riding.

“U-trasta, Hîr Elrohir,” he said, and gave a half bow of respect to the young lord and his stable. “I merely wished to be closer to my lady.”

Elrohir smiled then, lighting up as though stars had settled upon his brow, and in him then, Thranduil saw only the reflection of his lady mother, Celebrían.

“Then I regret, your Majesties, that I must interrupt.” Elrohir’s smile faded to seriousness again as he continued, “for my father requests you come and speak with he that is recently arrived at Imladris.”

Thranduil felt Celyndailiel shiver, and tightened his arms around her.

_He will take you from me once more._ Her voice whispered in his mind, before she said aloud, “The Gray Pilgrim.”

** ** **

Flickering lanterns were already alight by the time Thranduil’s measured steps took him to Elrond’s study. As he entered, the Lord of Imladris came to his feet.

“Thranduil, my apologies for drawing you from your diversion,” he said, “and on such a pleasant day.”

He inclined his head in recognition of Elrond’s apology, hearing also the words he had not spoken; reading between the lines: what they would discuss there would give him little pleasure.

His eyes shifted to fall upon the other figure in the room, gray-clad, his unkempt hair falling in a tangle around his shoulders. The figure had so far made no attempt to draw notice to himself, nor yet to greet Thranduil, as would have been proper. Instead Thranduil took the initiative.

“Mithrandir,” he greeted the Istari with all the warmth of a mountain lake in winter.

As if waking, or only when addressed noticing the other’s presence, the Gray Pilgrim rose to his feet and turned to face him.

“My lord, Thranduil,” he answered, and his tone was similarly matched, and the smile on his face belied the serious expression hidden in the depth of his eyes. “It is good to see you.”

“Spare me,” Thranduil answered, and stepped toward a seat at what it appeared would serve them as their conference table. Once there he swept his robes behind him and sat with a flourish. “Ever have you cared little for me, or my position in Greenwood.”

“Not so, my Lord,” Gandalf countered mildly. “It is because of your position in Greenwood that I am here.”

“Well,” Elrond stepped between them, turning a wry smile toward Thranduil as he looked his way. “I’m glad we have that out of the way.”

The Lord of Imladris filled three goblets and set one each before Gandalf and Thranduil, before carrying his own with him as he reseated himself at the table.

“Now perhaps we can conduct what business it is that brings Mithrandir to the valley without such enmity clouding our words.”

“I hold no enmity, my Lord Elrond,” Gandalf said, and Thranduil thought he detected a note of regret in his voice.

“Speak then,” he said, taking a sip of wine from his goblet, and gesturing to the third seat at the table, waiting while Mithrandir found his way there, and lowered himself carefully into it. Once settled, he wasted no time, it seemed to Thranduil, coming to the point.

“There is a power,” he said, “Rising in the south of the once great Greenwood.”

Thranduil bristled, but schooled his outward appearance to stillness. Even so he knew the Istari had sensed his ire, for Gandalf spoke again quickly, earnestly.

“I’m on your _side_ , Thranduil. I _know_ you have oftentimes petitioned the White Council to act, or to _allow_ you to act,” he said, and carefully placed something atop the table, keeping his hand on it for a short while before sliding it closer to Thranduil. “A meddler I may be, but I see the pattern of things: wheels within wheels.”

He removed his hand, and Thranduil frowned as he saw the cloth bound object on the table in front of him.

“What _is_ this?” he asked and began to reach for it, freezing when a soft voice came from the doorway.

“Odo'ni Nauhírath vi rynd gonui în.”

Thranduil rose, turning at the same time to hold out a hand to his beloved. Elrond and Gandalf both, an instant later came to their feet as Celyndailiel crossed the room to lay her hand atop Thranduil’s, and circle him to take the seat from which he had risen.

“It is true then, the rumor,” Mithrandir breathed softly, his eyes never leaving the Elven queen’s face.

Thranduil stepped closer and laid a protective hand upon the shoulder of his Lady. He felt her, truly felt her in all that she had ever been, in that moment, and it was both the most joyful feeling he could have imagined, and yet one that frightened him to the core.

“I would know Celebrimbor’s work anywhere,” she said in answer to Mithrandir, and without a word pushed the wrapped bundle back in his direction across the table top. Her slender hand barely touching the cloth of its wrapping. “I was there when these were forged. I carried their warning once before, and I carry it again now. If you pursue this Wanderer, you will bring great peril on yourself. I see death walk at your side.”

“And yet, it must be, my Lady,” Mithrandir answered, taking up the bundle again, and placing it quickly within a pouch at his waist. “For without true evidence of our suspicions, the White Council will _never_ be persuaded to act.”

The wizard raised his gaze then to find Thranduil’s.

“And my Lord Thranduil, I must therefore ask your leave to enter Greenwood, and investigate the source of this trouble in the south.”

Thranduil took in a deep breath, about to argue, about to deny the Istari, against all reason – for did _he_ not wish to deal with this assault upon his kingdom, and were not his own hands tied by his compliance with the ruling of the White Council.

“No,” Celyndailiel rose to her feet. Thranduil blinked, and half reached to turn her, ever gently, enquire as to the reason, the meaning of her objection, but she continued onward, addressing Mithrandir. “You seek not to sway the White Council in anything, but to find one who was lost, whom you will not know, even when you find him. Would you pay with your own life for this? Would you pay with the lives of others?”

“My Lady…” Mithrandir all but stuttered.

“There is no need of answer,” Celyndailiel interrupted his struggles, sounding suddenly sad and tired. “Istan im er mabatha hon o im.”

“Forgive me, my Lady,” Mithrandir answered, “but it—”

“—must be,” she finished. “Yes. I know.”

** ** **

Celyndailiel sighed softly as she felt his hands come to settled at her shoulders, and leaned back into his tall frame. His arms slipped around the top of her shoulders, and he held her closer still.  She had heard him enter, but had not moved from her place at the archway to the balcony.

“I’m sorry, Celynen,” he whispered, leaning down to her.  She felt the soft press of his mouth, his kiss against the side of her neck.

“When?” she asked softly.

“At first light,” he answered, his breath dancing a caress over her skin where her gown scooped along her shoulder.

After a moment, she turned and pressed her cheek against his chest, slipped her hands upwards to grasp the lapels of his outer robe, and held there, not speaking, only breathing him in for heartbeat after heartbeat until the silence grew and deepened, became almost unbearable, suffocating. Still she could not speak.

Thranduil freed them from its bonds.

“You are stronger than this, my love,” he said softly. “And you know that I seek an _end_ to this separation in my leaving. I _will_ return.”

She looked up at him, and shook her head. “Mithrandir will not bring you the means to do as you wish, and _you_ could end this separation in a heartbeat.”

“No,” he said firmly. “I will not bring you to Greenwood while threat still lies in wait beneath every shadow.” He cupped her face in his hands and leaned down until he shared breath with her, barely apart from her. “I would have you _safe_ , my Queen.”

“As I would you,” she whispered, then closed gap between them, her lips pressing softly to his.

As they kissed, he scooped her into his arms, her gown still trailing as he carried her from the archway, to the softness of her bed, where they tumbled amid the sea of fabric that surrounded them.

Garment by silken raiment they undressed, unhurried, unabashed in their sensual worship, each of the other’s form and beauty, and the love that shone from each of them like a beacon in the darkest of nights.

A soft breeze danced across her naked form to contrast the heat of Thranduil’s kisses, which bathed her from hip to breast, raised goosebumps over the whole of her, sensitive to his every move, to everything about him.  His heat, his weight as he rose over her, the silk of his skin as she wrapped her arms around him.

“Ai, Thranduil,” she breathed against his lips as they found hers, in gathering her beneath him, all other conscious thought dissolved as he joined them, sliding into her as a sword to its perfect sheath. Their collective sighs, a harmony of love, surrounded them and drew them deeper into the act of true and perfect love.

When at last the wave of it broke over them, and she cried out for him as he for her, it was a cry that reached between the realms, moved the worlds and began anew the heartbeat of their world.

Breathlessly, she sank down upon him from where, at some point in their lovemaking they had turned and bathed his chest with kisses as she came to rest there, still joined, still holding him within the safety of her body. She felt him move to draw the comforter up over the both of them as their bodies cooled from their exertion; felt the protective strength of his arms close around her.

“Melan le,” he whispered, and dipped his head to brush her temple with a kiss.

She lifted her head enough that she could look into his eyes, shining in the fading starlight of their loveplay.

“And I you, my heart,” she said softly. Then added, “Stay.”

“I cannot,” he murmured.

“Then take me with you.”

“Celyndailiel,” he said and held her more tightly in his arms, making no move to separate the two of them as she had feared he might at such a request. “You hold the very _soul_ of Greenwood in your heart, and you are the body of that sacred land. I would as soon have you apart from me as I would separate my head from my body—”

“Then…” she tried to interrupt.

“But…” he said, and cut her off with a kiss. “What kind of king would I be, what kind of husband, if I knowingly put you in harm’s way? You who are Greenwood’s most holy treasure.”

“You,” she countered, “ _You_ are Greenwood, not I.”

“Lau, híril nin,” he shook his head, and smiled at her, a soft, wry smile, but not without love. “I _serve_ Greenwood… as her king.”

“I-dor ad i-arandyn nar er,” she murmured, fighting now against the soft press of reverie and peace which descended now with greater insistence than she had ever known before.

“Always,” he purred agreement, and nuzzled softly at the top of her head, “Rest. I will be with you.”

** ** **

The overarching canopy of the great beech trees whispered soft welcomes as their horses set hoof to the road. They would take the road to Greenwood’s Halls, hear what news they may before turning their path southward, and towards Amon Lanc.

Thranduil barely heard their salutation for his mind, and his heart lay, still, with his wife some seven days missed.

_Some time in the night, as the stars turned in the heavens, without truly leaving Reverie, for he felt her still there, Celyndailiel lifted her head and found his mouth with hers, pressing soft kisses to his lips until he roused enough to return them._

_Kisses roused his body, and within her softness he grew once more in passion for her, gathered closer and already beginning a rhythmic glide within her softness, rolled so that she lay cradled beneath him as he possessed her fully, in flesh and in spirit._

Mithrandir cleared his throat, drawing Thranduil from the memories of his time with Celyndailiel, and he turned his gaze toward the Istari, one eyebrow raised in query.

“I wonder at the wisdom of riding beneath the boughs of your woodland home so… distracted,” the old wizard said.

“I have focus,” Thranduil countered.

“On your wife, yes,” Mithrandir said, “You’ve spoken fewer and fewer words the further we’ve gone from her.”

“My thoughts of my Queen are my own business,” he said, his manner testy. “Is there some point to this or do you seek simply to antagonize me.”

“No…. no, Thranduil,” Mithrandir murmured. “No antagonism is intended, I merely seek to keep your mind where it is needed – in case of Orcs or whatever else we might run into between here and there.”

“I _have_ focus,” Thranduil repeated, and with a further sour expression given to the Istari, the king urged his mount forward to lead the way along the road.

“Tell me, Thranduil,” Mithrandir called after him as he began to guide his horse to follow. “What is it you believe we shall gain by travelling first to your Halls, than by heading straight for the Hill of Sorcery?”

“I would learn what has occurred in my absence,” he answered, trying to keep the annoyance from his voice that Mithrandir would ask a question with such an obvious answer. “Anything we can learn of the enemies we might face will better prepare us for—”

“It might also prepare the enemy,” Mithrandir said, and as Thranduil pulled up sharp, turning his horse to face the Istari in pique at the suggestion that his course of action was unwise, the wizard said more softly, “or others… could be alerted to our presence.”

As though they had been conjured by his words, a patrol of elves swung down from the trees and emerged from the foliage to the sides of the road, at once recognizing their king and making formal greeting.

“We had not expected you back so soon, my Lord,” one said.

“It had not been my intent to return with such expedition,” he confirmed, “but matters arose that demanded my return, and my attention.” Then he added, “Man siniath?”

“There is an emissary in the Halls, Sire, from the Men of the Long Lake.”

“What do they want?” he snapped.

“They were sent in response to the… continued distrust,” the leader of the patrol answered. “Diplomacy.”

“I’m certain Legolas can handle it,” Thranduil said, suddenly feeling that Mithrandir’s plan to head straight to Dol Guldur was a good one.

“Of course, my Lord,” the answer came as a swift relief – relief that was short lived as Mithrandir spoke again.

“But my Lord Thranduil,” he said, “Think what greater gains could be achieved if you were to grace the emissary with your presence… in person, and… and what greater confidence could you show your son than to verify that you are in accord with his decisions.”

“And you, I suppose, would go on alone to Amon Lanc,” Thranduil said.

“Well…” Mithrandir mumbled, “As I said, I feel it wise to avoid… tipping our hand to any that might lie in wait with ill intent, so…”

“So, you will go,” Thranduil finished, “but accompanied by my guards.”

He nodded to the patrol who moved to stand with Mithrandir, who seemed less than pleased to have been given with such an escort.

“And see that you return to my Halls to report your findings,” he commanded, already tugging the reins of his horse, meaning to turn for home.

“Of course, my Lord Thranduil.”

The feelings and her voice descended on him with the full weight of falling boughs as if from the tallest trees.

_Do not send our people into darkness… Do not risk life on this fool’s errand._

“Captain,” he called, just as Mithrandir began to turn and take a southerly path.  He gestured to the captain as the Elf looked his way, beckoning him closer, and as his loyal guardsman reached his side, he leaned down from the saddle and said more quietly, but in earnest, “Go no further than the foot of the hill. Do _not_ enter the fortress under any circumstances.  If the old fool wishes to kill himself, so be it, but I will not have our people sacrificed to his folly.”

“Be iest lin,” the captain answered, and returned to the wizard’s side.

Thranduil took a breath and straightened in the saddle, a slight tremor to his hands as they guided the reins; as he reached out to wind his mind into the lingering contact of his beloved wife as he whispered, “Not by my will, but to the will of our Queen.”

_What is it you have seen, my beloved?_

** ** **

Her disappointment had not been unexpected, in spite of the loving encounter she had shared with Thranduil in the space between; the spiritual realm, but it left her feeling lost and lonely. To pass the time, and to ease the aches that remained in her body she bathed in one of the deep, hot bathing pools, then walked the gardens of Imladris, trying not to let her heart sink to sadness as she contemplated all that had come to pass.

She passed the caress of her fingers over leaves that framed the paths she walked, paths she had shared with Thranduil; shady nooks where he had drawn her to him, kissed her tenderly…

_“The wizard has come.”_

The dark, Orcish whisper sullied her peace from where her fingers traced the shape of a tree, grown crooked from an ancient slash in its trunk. She spun around, half fearing to see the twisted shape of an Orc behind her, even knowing that none would ever penetrate the sanctuary of Imladris… not since the last time…

_“He is lifting the spell. He will find us.”_

A different speaker, and she began to feel the full and true pull of The Sight drawing her closer… drawing her in to the vision.

_“Yes… he will.”_

And she surrendered…

_The guardsmen walked in formation around the wizard, as they would have to a noble of Greenwood, two intersecting triangles, forming a six-pointed star radiating around the gray-clad Istari – fighting hard, fighting for their very souls._

_Orcs and Wargs, both, surrounded them, fighting bitterly… the Orcs cutting down the elves one by one, the Wargs tearing apart what remained._

She gasped… stumbling to sit, hard, on a nearby wall. She could not allow it; had to warn them somehow. Gathering her shaken resolve, she closed her eyes, and reached out to her beloved. She felt the warmth of their connection, the strength of their shared love speeding her mind towards his.

_Do not send our people into darkness… Do not risk life on this fool’s errand._

She felt his acknowledgement, knew he had acted on her warning and breathed a relieved sigh, the image of the dying elves still haunting her, disturbingly real, as though it had happened around her, not in the southern reaches of Greenwood.

_What is it you have seen, my beloved?_

The solace of his presence was like arms around her, and she leaned into the contact as though he too were really there with her.

_Mithrandir marches into death… destruction._

She tried to convey to him the things she had seen; the warning she wished for him to understand… the desire that _he_ stay far away from Dol Guldur.

_He will not lead our people into Shadow, beloved, and I return to our son in Greenwood Halls._

She felt tears of relief flow to wet her face, and wrapped her arms around herself even as she whispered aloud the words she also shared with Thranduil.

_He will not return to you there, Arasfain._

** ** **

As he understood they had been commanded, Thranduil’s elves left him at the foot of the hill that was the boundary of Amon Lanc. He was relieved at that, for it meant he did not have to send them away; convince them to act against their liege lord’s command. He stood and watched as they simple melted away, back into the trees – and he knew they would not be there when he emerged from the fell fortress ahead of him.

He climbed slowly, and entered cautiously, with each step feeling the fell magic that infused the once great fortress – though he had never known the place during Oropher’s reign. His hand fell to the scabbard at his waist and he drew Glamdring from its sheath, in the other hand holding aloft his staff.

“The evil that is hidden here I command it… come forth!” he spoke the words of the spell. “I command it reveal itself!”

He raised the staff, and struck it down hard against the stone, sending out the burst of magic from his spell, an expanding sphere, gathering speed and distance, causing falls of dust and debris to clatter along its pathways.

He turned full circle, trying to decide which way was best to go, to venture deep within the bowels of the fortress, to find that which he sought, murmuring a repeat of the spell as he chose a direction and moved.

Descending steps, along pathways lined with the addition of spiked railing and hanging cages, Gandalf fought the waves of Shadow and Despair he moved through, which had taken up residence in the very walls themselves.

He spun at the sound of a rattle, movement not caused by him, though maybe by the ill wind that blew through the gaps in the ruined walls, trying to find the source of the noise, trying to identify its cause.

It struck him as a dead weight, falling from above and taking his feet out from under him. He rolled and turned quickly to stand once more, staff and sword leading in opposite arcs, protective of his front and of his flank, expecting an Orc or some other fell creature.

He fell back a step at what – or rather whom – he did see, but had little time to react otherwise before the unkempt Dwarf was on him once more.

Again, he swung his staff, forcing the unfortunate Dwarf backwards, but undeterred he came on again, leaping at Gandalf, and unbalancing him. Gandalf fell to his back, managing only to get his staff between the two of them to keep the feral creature away, until rolling, he could throw him aside.

A third time the Dwarf came at him, leaping, snarling at his face. Gandalf caught him and threw him aside, through the bone-like, dried husks of branches that remained a part of the once Elven landscape. The Dwarf rolled until he fell from the ledge on which they fought.

Barely pausing to catch his breath, for urgency stirred his heart now in recognition of the one who had fought him, and had so lost himself to wild madness that Gandalf hurried along ill-used hallways, trying to reach the place to which his one-time friend might have fallen.

Left and right, he turned, breathless and searching. His staff wavered in his hands. A dead end barred his way, and he turned back, but a growl moved along a flanking hallway. Gandalf turned, but found it empty, turning again to the opposite way. A shadow darted across the narrow opening, and the Grey Pilgrim hurriedly turned to try a third way that might allow him to keep pace with the one he sought.

His breath came faster and in turning he unbalanced, pain shot through his arm as he half fell against the sharp metal of a hanging cage, but he hurried, drawing closer – he hoped – to finding his quarry. Turn and turn again, and a pause, to catch his breath; to gather his wits, but before he could do either the maddened, solid weight of the Dwarf took what wind he managed to catch from his body, bearing him down again, the two rolling head over feet along a hallway strewn with brittle bones and skulls that crush beneath them.

Gaining his feet, Gandalf turned in time to catch the Dwarf that flew at him again, that wrapped the crushing vise of his legs around the wizard’s waist. Gandalf charged the nearest wall to try and dislodge the Dwarf, and turned to drive the solid mass of him against another until finally he gained advantage and slammed the Dwarf down on the ground, following him down to pin him there, and thrust his hand against the struggling brow, already chanting the words of his spell.

Labored breathing slowed… tension waned and then dissipated altogether as the Dwarf relaxed beneath his touch and at the behest of the spell, the madness left him, and clear sighted, his eyes met those of Gandalf.

“Thrain,” Gandalf said at last, giving him back his name. “Son of Thror, my old friend.”

“Gandalf,” Thrain said, a pained and painful frown creasing his face beneath his unkempt brows as he pushed up on his elbows, attempting to rise.

Gandalf sat back to give him space, his own pain clear upon his face. Why had he not looked before? Why did he always find friends when he came looking for darkness and ill?

_“You seek not to sway the White Council in anything, but to find one who was lost, whom you will not know, even when you find him.”_

“A lifetime,” Thrain said in horrified wonderment. “I’ve been here a lifetime.”

“I’m so sorry I gave you up for dead,” Gandalf lamented.

Thrain half shook his head, as memory washed over him.

“I had a son… Thorin.”

“And you will see him again, my friend,” Gandalf told him, and helping him up began to lead him from the filth and shadows, wanting to lead him to safety, to make good on the promise he had just spoken.

“We were at war,” Thrain talked as he followed. “I was surrounded. The Defiler,” he gasped the words, becoming lost again in memory. “Azog the Defiler had come…”

The tale was as dark and full of bitter hopelessness as Gandalf had feared, and told of a battle hard fought, and harder yet lost… a battle with purpose, one that matched – in part – the one that had drawn Gandalf to such an evil place.  He reached out, grasped Thrain’s sleeve and raised his hand to see what he already knew, in his heart.

Thrain’s finger, the one that should have born the ring, was barely a stump upon his still clawed hand.

“They took it,” Thrain whispered.

“The last of the Seven,” Gandalf answered, dread coloring his voice.

** ** **

Palace guards, and household staff scattered ahead of Thranduil as he strode along the walkways toward the throne-room, where he had been informed he would find Legolas.

Word traveled faster than Thranduil could walk, even at a good pace, so by the time he reached the platform at the foot of the stair that led up to his throne, Legolas had already descended and turned to greet him.

“I-adar nín,” he said, “I had not expected you back so soon.”

Thranduil paused in his advance long enough to place a hand across his chest and bow his head in recognition of the formality of his son’s greeting, then sweeping closer, and unfastening and removing his travelling cloak to toss it to a nearby steward, he embraced Legolas briefly before he spoke.

“Neither had I expected to return as I did,” he said, “but matters came to Rivendell in the guise of a wizard that I could neither ignore, nor deny ingress to the south of Greenwood, much as I might have wished.”

He gestured toward the path leading toward his private study, then stepped beside Legolas instructing, “Walk with me,” before following that pathway.

“A wizard?” Legolas asked, as he fell into step. “What business has he in the south?”

“Business that is not his own, but ours,” Thranduil snapped, stepping into the privacy of the office, turning to face Legolas only when the doors closed behind them. “I want to you to strengthen our patrols on the southern borders.”

His voice was clipped, and he moved to a nearby bookcase, to pull down a large, rolled parchment – a map – and cleared a table at the side of the room with a sweep of his arm, sending goblets and other papers to scatter to the corners of the room. Then he unrolled the map and weighed it down at the corners with the few effects that had escaped unscathed.

“You are angry, Ada,” Legolas as much stated as asked as he joined him, looking down at the map to where he was already pointing at the border lines that _he_ considered would be most vulnerable; intuitively drawn to the areas of greatest concern.

_I-dor ad i-arandyn nar er._

“I fear the old fool will only awaken more trouble – like an imbecile poking at a hornets’ nest with a stick.” He glanced at Legolas, and said, “If they come up from the south—”

“I will see it done, Father,” Legolas interrupted, and with a breath, Thranduil nodded.

“You will bring me your reports immediately on your return,” he said.

“Ahead of my return, if the need dictates it.”

He nodded again, approval. His son understood the importance, and the implications of their defensive action… and his preparations for action of a different kind.

“I hear we received an emissary from the Men of the Long Lake?” he asked.

“A diplomatic gesture,” Legolas answered, his gaze still focused on the map. “They sent word to inform of a new ‘Master’ in charge of the settlement they call Laketown.”

“I don’t suppose he’s any better than any of the others,” Thranduil said dismissively.

“Worse,” Legolas agreed.

They fell to silence, and Thranduil watched his son’s concentrated examination of the map. For a long while he said nothing, simply watched and listened.

“Man Cenich?” he asked at length.

“The seeds of something that will lead me far from here.” Legolas said. “Why are we preparing for war?”

** ** **

“We are not at War, Gandalf.”

From her vantage point, out of sight of the members of the White Council below, but easily able to see and hear all that passed between them, Celyndailiel winced at the tone in the White Wizard’s voice.

Across the distance she could easily see the cuts and bruises, the scratches and scrapes on Mithrandir’s face and hands, but more, she could _hear_ the lament of grief that screamed from every ounce of him. How could Saruman not?

_Or perhaps he does not care…_

Celyndailiel started, and tightened her fingers around the pillar to which she held fast, as the Lady of Lothlorien’s voice sounded in her head.

_Yes, I know you’re there. Come down… my Lady._

She felt herself caught in indecision, but only for a moment, as Mithrandir’s embittered answer splashed across the gathered elders of Ennor, like fresh blood, leaving her seeing red, and freeing her grasp from the stone, she whispered footsteps over the stair that would take her down to the platform below.

“Not at—” Mithrandir spat, “We have never ceased to be—”

“We remain in a state of Watchful—”

“Watchful Peace?” The Grey Pilgrim mocked. “Please…”

At a turn in the stair, Celyndailiel saw him pace away from where Saruman sat – as a king holding court – before spinning back as he continued.

“…you weren’t there. You didn’t see the way they… _fell_ on Thrain like the rabid dogs that they are!”

“And you had no _business_ being there either,” Saruman began to argue, just as Celyndailiel reached the floor.

“He had every right,” she defended, coming around the final pillar and into the light. Elrond turned to give a deep and respectful bow, before straightening to offer his arm as escort to the council.  An offer she accepted, with a graceful dip of her head. “He had leave of the King.”

Then coming to a halt beside the others, she acknowledged the Grey Pilgrim’s presence with a soft, “Mithrandir…” and taking leave of Elrond’s side, reached out to lay her hand softly over the deepest cut on the side of his head, allowing healing to flow from her spirit into his injured soul. “Hiro Thrain hidh ab ‘wanath.”

She watched as a single tear rolled in quiet tribute to the fallen Dwarf Lord.

“My Lady,” Saruman climbed, seemingly reluctantly, to his feet. “I had no idea you were in attendance.”

“Evidently,” she answered, turning to face Saruman. “Tell me, how much longer will your obstinacy remain? How much more evidence do you need and to whom will you answer when your failure to act brings about further harm?”

“Lady, there _is_ no evidence, nor has Gandalf brought any to our attention, that proves anything other than a clan of Orcs has taken refuge within the walls of the former fortress at Amon Lanc,” Saruman said, and Celyndailiel bristled as his tone was one as though speaking to a child.

“Because this White Council has urged nothing but inaction, when there is an _army_ and leaders enough to gather the evidence you require, and push back the Shadow that is gathering in a place once ours,” she accused, feeling her anger rising, until a soft, cooling touch landed upon her arm.

“What Híril Celebren o Eryn Galen is trying to explain, Saruman, is that King Thranduil has believed, for some time, that greater evil than the presence of Orcs and Spiders walks freely in Greenwood South.” Galadriel said. “Would it not be wise… within the remit of a Watchful Peace to allow _some_ investigation.”

“No,” Saruman snapped, “I forbade it once, I forbid it still, until such evidence is brought before me, before this council, to warrant such an action. The Istari were sent to aid the free peoples of Middle Earth, but forbidden to match power with power, only when we have the evidence may we _hope_ to sway the opinion of the Valar.”

_He invokes the interdiction of the Valar far too freely._

Again, Galadriel’s voice purred into Celyndailiel’s inner consciousness, and rather than comfort Celyndailiel with her support, the White Lady pushed her toward discomfort.

“The Valar… are not here, my Lord Saruman,” she said, “And need I remind you that my Lord Husband has bidden your prohibition, against his better judgement. Greenwood is under siege, sir, and you would have him sit idly by and do nothing but draw our people within the walls of Lasgalen Halls like… prisoners.”

“Lady Celyndailiel,” Saruman began, but Celyndailiel shook her head.

“No. On behalf of my Liege Lord, as his Queen I will not hear more,” she said, then turning her head to Elrond said, “By your leave, Lord Elrond…” leaving enough of a pause for his nod of assent before continuing, “…if you intend to do nothing, then your reason for meeting here is ended. We, meanwhile, will maintain your Watchful Peace with the innocent blood of our people.”

Then with barely a contact of hand across her chest in a parting gesture, dismissed the White Wizard.

“Ledho hidh, hîr nin.”

She stood, immobile and immovable even as Galadriel tried to offer a parting blessing. Only when she and Elrond were alone once more, did she begin to relax, and release the anger that had darkened inside of her.

“Was it wise, Celyn?” he asked softly, coming to lean against the stone table, facing her, “to speak so strongly, so soon?”

“Wise or not, Elrond, it was necessary. There is no peace in that one’s heart.” She shook her head, and sighed softly.  “You know, of course, that I must go to Thranduil, to tell him what has transpired here.”

“I will see to it that and escort is prepared immediately, my Lady,” Elrond answered.

“I will travel faster alone,” she said.

Elrond laughed, entirely without humor.

“And Thranduil would flay the skin from my bones for it,” he said.

“Well then, send your sons to accompany me,” she said. “They are skilled rangers, and when we arrive, perhaps our children will find a friendship to see them through the coming storm.”

** ** **

He could tell that the ceremony with which he greeted them, the Peredhil twins, and the Lady Nieniriathlim – for here, still so called was his Queen Celyndailiel… and the time was not yet right to announce her formally as such to their people – was wearing to her. It had obviously been a long, hard journey for reasons which apparently were of great urgency. Her worries, and thoughts were written on her face, in her eyes.

Finally, committing their guests into Legolas’ care, Thranduil led Celyndailiel – at first courtly, then swifter yet – to his private offices wherein he and Legolas discussed, daily, the findings of the increased patrols that kept the borders of his realm.

As he closed the door she swept across the room to look upon the battle map, and he waited, watching her as she took in the details mapped there, before she raised her head and turned to speak to him across her shoulder.

“There are more Orcs than these,” she said, “and stronger. Here…” she pressed her fingertips to the areas surrounding Dol Guldur. “…from the fortresses of the far north, and hidden by a powerful magic.”

“And you know this…?” he asked, not doubting her for a moment, only wanting confirmed wherein came the knowledge.

“Mithrandir,” she said the name in a low, measured voice, then turned fully to face, and then cross to him, taking an earnest grip on the lapels of his robe.

“Celyndailiel—” He began, but she cut him off, her fatigue from the journey, and the emotions conjured at her worry filling the room with the tangible essence of them.

“There is evil, Thranduil, an evil we _know_ only too well, at work within those walls.”

He slipped his arms beneath her elbows to support her as he felt her strength faltering, and tried to hush her, encourage her to give herself a moment, to sit, to take refreshments… anything that would withdraw her from such distress.

“Mithrandir returned to Rivendell, and to the White Council that was meeting there. He tried to persuade them to aid, at last, but was again overruled. Saruman would not entertain it, forbade action, still, for lack of concrete evidence.”

“That one would not believe evidence were he to see firsthand all that transpired in Greenwood even were it to happen upon _his_ doorstep.” He tried to cut in on her words which were coming faster with each passing moment, the tension in her body increasing. The tactic proved ineffective.

“He invoked the name of the Valar in his reasoning for inaction, for the demand for proof; he was cold, Thranduil, even for one of his kind he—”

“Celynen…”

“—is touched by Shadow, Arasfain. I can _feel_ it… feel…”

She trailed off, her fingers tightening their grip on Thranduil’s robes, and he felt her weight against his hands, however slight it always seemed to him, increase as the power of sight, or of remembrance swept over her. Ever fluid, the progression of time around her spirit.

Winding his arms more tightly around her, he guided the both of them to the nearby chaise, drawing her down almost into his lap as her tears began to fall.

“You are too close here, Mîrlosen,” he whispered softly against the top of her head. “But it cannot reach you here… he cannot hold you.  Dadweno im, melethril. Dadweno im.”

** ** **

_"Why do you linger here in the pain of vain hope when there is one who would have the whole of you?"_

The whisper of a hiss chilled her, weakened her and she lost sight of all around her, dissolving into the past, into the moment of the past that left her alone, a trauma that had assaulted her spirit so badly that she’d spoken of it to NO ONE – not even to Thranduil.

_They surrounded her – twelve of them – four Triads of guardsmen with three of them hurrying her along with physical touches to her arms and to her back, the forward Triad cleared the way to the pavilion, around which lamenting soldiers stood, some swaying in shock, others giving vent with their voices… all of them lost in grief and fear._

_Suddenly the doorway was ahead of her, the Triad leader held open the doorway._

_“My Lady… inside.”_

_Inside was dim lit… a single candle, burning mournfully at the head of the bier. Inside was filled with the acrid stench of burned flesh, and death. Inside was all that was left of her brother._

_“Lau…”_

_Though she screamed the word as she flew to fall to her knees at his side, her voice barely pierced the heavy silence._

_“Ereinion!”_

_Leaning over her brother’s remains, uncaring of the stench of his death, myriad whispers, her many, nightmare visions of this moment coalesced into a single bolt of heat and light and shattered the veil that separated the realms of Light and Shadow – life and death – and she shared his final moments._

_~~~ ~~~ ~~~_

They came at him thick and fast, almost as fast as he could cut them down, swinging his bladed spear like a farmer with a scythe at corn, and they fell before him. All around the ground was littered with the fallen Orcs as the warriors of men streamed past him to reach the scores of others, and Elves around him concentrated on those of the Orcs flanking the bitter charge of the Alliance forces.

Growling, Gil-Galad thrust his spear into an Orc still trying to strike at him from where it had fallen, pulling the spear clear to stand ready as the foul creature died.

Instead of an incoming rush of Orcs, he was met with silence, ominous and dread, before a moment later, the men of the Alliance hurried past him as though trying to escape… but what? For no Orcs followed them. In confusion Gil-Galad turned to watch their retreat, a retreat that halted, the men frozen as though in terror.

The Elf felt him then; felt the unimaginable weight of Shadow and evil streaming from the fallen Maiar at his back, and turned again, too slow to raise his spear, which was slapped from his suddenly limp grasp.

Powerless, he could not avoid the grasp that clamped around his throat, could only raise his hands, clawing at hot metal as the breath began to fail him, his windpipe crushed in the hold that Sauron had around his neck, though he was denied the peace of death.

The spirit of Sauron pushed in upon his consciousness, in those final moments, taking all that he had ever known of love and joy and twisting it into a knot of fear and hate… despair. As his eyes, growing darker, fell into the roiling pit that were Sauron’s Shadowed orbs, the fell voice whispered, a chill wind against his fëa even as it fought to depart his suffering body.

_You sought to keep her from me, all these years, and now you have failed. First, I will have this world, and then, I will have_ her!

Panic barely had time to flood his dying form with adrenaline that had his heart racing, before the searing roar of the magical flames engulfed him, consumed him, the threat still echoing within his mind as he departed, and his spirit fled to Mandos’ Halls…

_I will have her._

…and he felt no more.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

_She curled more tightly over her brother, through her sobs whispered promises that she would never be his, that she would_ die _before she let that happen, and be reunited with her brother in the Halls of Waiting._

_Long moments she wept, inconsolable in her grief, her anguish and her terror, until the gentle grip of a long-fingered hand slipped over her shoulder, and the warmth of breath, and of a soft kiss pressed against the back of her head. Then she felt the touch of Thranduil’s cheek close behind her ear._

_"My spirit weeps with yours," he murmured._

_"I knew," she sobbed, her shoulders shaking with the strength of her grief. "I saw... so many years ago, but this... but now...."_

_She wanted, so badly, to tell him of all she had seen, but fear stayed her… their promises still so new that she did not know how he might help her carry this burden. She half turned her head, her fingers still tangled in the cloak they had wrapped around Gil-Galad, as though to let him go would have cut them both adrift... and with an inability to speak her fears, beseeched Thranduil to save her nonetheless._

** ** **

“You are too close here, Mîrlosen,” he whispered softly against the top of her head. “But it cannot reach you here… he cannot hold you.  Dadweno im, melethril. Dadweno im.”

“Thranduil,” she whispered, “All these years… and you have known?”

“I knew the moment I set foot inside the pavilion,” he answered softly, cupping her cheek in his hand as she raised her head from his chest to look upon his face, and the truth of his words reflected in his eyes as he continued. “I always knew, always felt… every moment of fear, every unwelcome touch of his unclean intent toward you. I knew.”

“Ai,” she reached up to cradle his face between her shaking hands, “Arasfainen… hervennen…”

“From the moment I laid eyes upon you, and my heart knew love for you, our fëa became one, Celyndailiel,” he whispered, leaning closer, “And I _will not_ see that come to pass.”

He kissed her then, a soft sharing of breath, becoming a consuming sharing of the promises between them, made once, long ago, and renewed in this new age. Hands skimmed over too much fabric, loosening ties, freeing her to the breath of the warm air of Greenwood Halls, and the hotter breath of Her king.

She whispered soft pleas, undressing him and drawing him closer, wanting him, _needing_ him to be whole with her and to be made whole in him; arched against him as his knowing touch found the seat of her need, flooded for him as he guided their becoming one, and gripped him with the whole of her as he entered her, laying her back against the chaise to love her – full in his worship of her as his Queen, and she as Greenwood to him.

_I-dor ad i-arandyn nar er._

Long they loved, and longer yet they spoke of all that was in their hearts and in their minds; nothing they held back, and when day broke and found them once more in each other’s consuming embraces, drifting in a Reverie of Knowing, soul-deep, all that they were, she acquiesced sadly to his mirroring sorrowful command.

“Now, you must return to Imladris, and we must, both of us, await the coming time when we will play our parts in the future, and the war that is yet to come.”

** ** **

Fitting, he thought, that the sun had passed Her zenith as the royal party that would bear his wife away from him, to Rivendell, prepared to depart. It would be nothing different than it had been before she came to him with the ill news from the White Council, and yet… it felt so much more.

Perhaps it was that she sat atop a white mare, adorned in a silver traveling gown and cloak, as befit her station, and the name by which most had once known her: Híril Celebren o Eryn Galen, or that their acts of love through this night past had somehow opened, once and for all, the door to all that she was and had ever been – no more those moments of clarity caught and held to ransom between the times of wandering lost as Nieniriathlim.

She turned then, executing the maneuver with perfect grace between the three Triads that surrounded her – her personal guard – and offered him a wordless gesture of farewell, which he returned, with a deeply respectful bow, mirrored in the genuflection of the gathered household that was there at her leave-taking.

Then she turned again, and with a whispered command to her mount, led the Triad out of the Halls, across the narrow bridge to the other side, where the guard moved up to surround her along the road as she left… taking the light – his light – with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noro sui gwaew, Colluilos – Run like the wind, Colluilos
> 
> Taitë melmë antanenyes táqa – Such love given form (Quenya)
> 
> Im anthan – I yield
> 
> Anthan an le – I yield to you
> 
> Ad im vaban – And I accept
> 
> U-trasta, hir Elrohir – No trouble, Lord Elrohir
> 
> Odo'ni Nauhírath vi rynd gonui în – seven for the Dwarf lords in the halls of stone
> 
> Istan im er mabatha hon o im – I know only that you will take him from me.
> 
> Ai, Thranduil – Oh, Thranduil
> 
> Melan le – I love you
> 
> Lau, híril nin – no my Lady
> 
> I-dor ad i-arandyn nar er – the Land and Her king are one.
> 
> Man siniath? – what news?
> 
> Be iest lin – As you wish
> 
> I-adar nín – Father (Lit: My father)
> 
> Man Cenich? – What do you see?
> 
> Hiro Thrain hidh ab ‘wanath. – May Thrain find peace
> 
> Ledho hidh, hîr nin. – Go in peace, my Lord
> 
> Dadweno im, melethril. Dadweno im – Return to me, beloved (f). Return to me.
> 
> Fëa – soul/spirit
> 
> Arasfainen… hervennen – My Arasfain… my husband
> 
> Híril Celebren o Eryn Galen – (The) Silver Lady of Greenwood the Great


End file.
